The Conquered Divide
by Marzipan77
Summary: Begins just as 'Divide and Conquer' ends. Martouf is dead. The Tok'ra Treaty is in doubt. And Jack and Sam have opened the door to official censure and reprimand. And Daniel? Daniel is wondering if what they knew as SG-1 is about to be broken forever. Angst. H/C. Anti-ship. Team.
1. Chapter 1

The Conquered Divide

By marzipan77

GEN SG-1 NO pairings.

Tag to Divide and Conquer – begins immediately after the last scene. So, yeah, there are some mentions of *shudders* het. There are real-world equivalent consequences to Colonel Jack and Major Sam's admissions during Zatarc testing. Some decisions are made, some weaknesses exploited. Consider it an AU if you like as things might have proceeded differently from there on.

Warnings: Angst, H/C, some whump, some not-so-nice-to-Sam moments. But, a gen, teamy fic at the heart of it!

Chapter 1

Daniel stood silently, breath coming hard and fast, his adrenaline soaked mind barely able to take in the flood of action in the 'gate room. Gravity gripped him tight and held him against the metal ramp where he'd been thrown by Martouf's casual blow, his muscles frozen somewhere between a crouch and a lunge, eyes wide in disbelief. The energy beams screamed, impacting steel and concrete, bullets slammed into the Tok'ra's body, blood welling bright red against the sand colored tunic but barely evoking a flinch. And then a shout – two zats – and Sam was cradling Martouf's dead body in a howling silence.

Daniel found himself on his feet, Jack and Teal'c standing close beside him, the Tok'ra, the Secret Service, Hammond – he blinked, coughed, pressed his right hand against the sudden burning in his chest – it didn't make any sense.

He'd been speaking with Per'sus, trying to keep his mind on the treaty, on the required courtesies and small, meaningless exchanges that came with diplomacy while drowning in worry and fear for his teammates: Sam - drugged, restrained for God knew how long; and Jack – Daniel swallowed a grunt of pain – Jack undergoing the same mind-torture that had turned Lieutenant Astor into a frenzied, suicidal killing machine. Anise's procedure – untested, unproven – that could easily turn his best friend into a shell of his former self, slobbering and quivering in a corner.

Every breath stabbed at him now, and Daniel shook his head, willing his heart to slow, to accept that it was over – whatever 'it' had been - his fingers smoothing his tie down against his dress shirt, hands moving independently of his brain to adjust his jacket, brush away imaginary blood stains and scorch marks. It had been the 'gate tech – Alberts – who had whispered in his ear, warned him that Martouf could be a zatarc, told him to try to draw the Tok'ra aside. Then all hell had broken loose.

Relief swept in to replace the rush of fear. Jack and Sam were awake, alive, and armed, so the assumption that they'd been zatarcs must have been wrong. Janet was there now, leaning over Sam, her white-coated minions hustling the dead body of the Tok'ra onto a gurney. Sam's eyes followed Martouf until his body disappeared down the corridor, an honor guard of Tok'ra striding stiffly on either side. Anise and Janet held a hurried conversation with Hammond before the Tok'ra woman stepped away to follow the medical team. And Martouf. Dead. Just like that.

Sam rose stiffly to her feet as the general and the doctor approached, the hand Daniel offered to her ignored, and then it was the six of them at the base of the ramp, a circle of barely restrained tension amidst the blue, buttoned-down, cautious puffery of the negotiating teams standing idly by, but Daniel couldn't seem to understand his colleagues' muttered words. He tried to clear his throat, pressing his hand against his chest as if he could smother the pain there.

"Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter –" Hammond's voice was low, but his pale eyes snapped with anger. "You are to wait for me in the briefing room. I'll expect a full and complete report on this matter as soon as I've been briefed by Doctor Frasier."

"Sir, I'd like to-"

Daniel felt Jack shift his weight as if he wanted to lunge forward to intercept Sam's words.

Hammond's fierce glance slapped at her. "Major Carter, you will follow my orders."

Daniel's sympathetic wince set off a searing pain that leapt across his chest to lodge in his right shoulder. To his left, Jack straightened.

"Yes, Sir."

The colonel was clearly answering for both of them. Protect. Defend. Jack was standing so stiff at Daniel's side, so remote, every inch the military colonel that Daniel almost turned his head to see if the buzz cut and bleak expression from their very first meeting was back.

The general's lips were no more than a thin, white slash across his face as he turned away – his dismissal cutting. "Teal'c, please go up to the surface and take charge of the President's security detail. Frankly, I don't think I'd trust his safety to anyone else right now."

The Jaffa warrior bowed, hands clasped behind him, and then, suddenly, he was gone.

"Doctor Jackson."

Daniel blinked, dragging his gaze back into focus. "Yes – yes. Sorry, General." His face felt hot.

Hammond took a half step closer, moving into the space Jack had vacated. When had he … and Sam … they'd gone …

"Doctor Jackson. I need you to hold things together down here. Soothe any ruffled feathers about the President's stand-in with the Tok'ra."

Daniel's attention wandered – again – drifting over the general's left shoulder to the patrician face of the Tok'ra High Councilor, Per'sus. The Tok'ra's eyes were bright, his piercing gaze aimed at Daniel, brows just starting to curl inward in concern as the scene around Daniel wavered, colorless; the words falling around him like dust.

What … something else …

"Look, son-"

Daniel glanced down, surprised, at the large-knuckled hand on his arm.

"- I know you have questions, but this treaty is too important to –"

"It's okay," Daniel whispered, his throat almost too full for the words to slip past. He started to turn, to sweep away the remaining carnage from Martouf's attack, to gather up his lost diplomatic sheep, but the twisting movement broke something in his chest and he gasped, staggering backwards.

Something struck his back and he heard the choked cry before he realized it was his. Was someone else attacking? Another zatarc? Per'sus – the President – he had to warn them. A hand pressed against his shoulder and he couldn't catch the scream behind his teeth.

Voices ebbed and flowed, faces in and out of focus above him. Above? He turned his head and felt the concrete floor scrape against his cheek.

"Len'At – the healing device."

Double – double vision – double hearing? The words were deep and resonant, warm breath colored by an odd scent fluttering his lashes. He opened his eyes.

Per'sus' face loomed just a few inches from his own, the Tok'ra leader's bland, even-tempered expression transformed into one of imperious command, impatience – anger – arrogant disbelief chased across the wide, grey eyes, turning them to gold. Daniel's body tensed to escape, but the sudden bright glow that hovered over him sent out strands of control that fused with his muscles and surrounded his churning thoughts with a soothing blanket of warm protectiveness. A moment later he drew in the first deep breath in recent memory and closed his eyes.

"High Councilor?"

That was Hammond on his left, his tone riding the edge of concern and teetering towards challenge. Daniel hoped he didn't try to stop the Tok'ra before he'd healed whatever was broken, whatever was keeping him from concentrating, from understanding what had happened around him.

"There are several broken bones in Doctor Jackson's chest, some have cut into muscle, into the connective tissue in his shoulder."

Per'sus' voice was still full of the Goa'uld intonation. Of course. Not double hearing, just the normal sound of a Tok'ra symbiote in control of his host. The fog was clearing.

"The greatest damage is to the covering of the heart. Please, bear with me, I must concentrate."

Bubbles seemed to be erupting in his chest, boiling and bursting beneath his sternum. It was as if he could hear pieces snapping into place like a jigsaw puzzle made of bone. He felt small, cool fingers against the pulse in his throat. Janet? When had she arrived?

His pain eased, seeming to flow back up into the golden light of the healing device, flow away from him, gathered up and pulled away – not disintegrating, no, more like it was riding the beam up into the outstretched hand above him. Eyes open wide, breathing slowing and deepening, Daniel watched Per'sus face pale, placid arrogance turning to lines of pain. Daniel's jagged, searing gasps dwindled and faded, the sounds around him falling into familiar patterns, and he realized that he could hear changes in the Tok'ra's own breathing. Heavy grunts and wheezing pants above him, bursts of air on his face, and then the barely audible whine of the Goa'uld device shut off.

"High Councilor Per'sus!"

"Ease him down there, let's get them both on gurneys and down to the infirmary."

Janet's voice. Boots shuffling, scraping against concrete. The clatter of wheels. Something warm lay all along his right side and Daniel turned his head, eyelids suddenly heavy, muscles loose and watery.

The Tok'ra's face was white, lines of tension radiating from his eyes and mouth. But his eyes were clear and staring into Daniel's.

"You will be well, Daniel," the High Councilor of the Tok'ra whispered. "Fear not."

He felt the frown start. Frustrated. His eyes kept slipping closed. "And you?"

A small smile tickled the firm lips. "And I. Sleep now."

That voice was as accustomed to giving orders as Jack's. Daniel smiled and obeyed.

oOo

Jack propped himself on the edge of the briefing room table, hands firmly in his pockets, staring out at the quiet normalcy of the 'gate room below. The Tok'ra Diplomacy Show had moved off to one of the conference rooms – probably the one they'd used when Thor had stupidly put Jack in charge of the whole 'protected planets' thing with Yu, Nerdy, and Cronic-Pain-in-His-Ass. He snorted. Per'sus and Daniel in the infirmary – yep, sounded like another round of SGC Jeopardy, _'I'll have 'Fucked-up Alien Treaties' for four-hundred, Alex.'_

Carter was pacing. Still. They'd both witnessed Daniel's collapse and the Tok'ra's quick use of the healing device one of his guards had been packing. She'd started to hustle towards the stairs, but Jack had grabbed at one arm, holding her back.

"Sir! Daniel's in trouble!" Her eyes had been wide, disbelief clouding their blue depths to grey.

Yeah, no shit. And if she thought Jack would be anywhere but at Daniel's side without the furious orders of his CO pinning him in place, she was more screwed up than he'd thought. "And we've been given our orders, Major," he'd growled. No way was he going to put any more stress on his relationship with Hammond at the moment. The general was dealing with alien dignitaries, a visit from the President, for God's sake, two officers' brain-washing, four deaths, Jack's own bad judgment, and, now, this. He sure didn't need an excuse to blow and take Jack and Carter down with him. "I think we can trust Hammond and Janet to let us know what's going on as soon as they do."

"But-"

"Major Carter, stand down." Jack straightened, the command in his tone like a bell to Pavlov's dogs, pressing all of his second's military-polished buttons.

She nodded, frowning. "Yes, sir." Confused.

Hell, he could get behind that. Jack was pretty damn confused himself. That dog and pony show with Anise, Carter's whispered words, blue eyes all misty and soft, Teal'c's rigid disapproval leaving Jack practically black and blue. Before that – months of slow-sliding into the abyss. He rubbed both hands over his face and called himself every name in the book for letting it all happen. Ego. Fear. Distraction. Ego again. Sheer laziness. Whatever Hammond had to say to him now that it was all out in the open – he snorted softly, shaking his head. "Staying in the room." Yeah, right. Good news might travel fast, but the best kept dirty little secret would make its way around the SGC at better than light speed. Now that it was out, Hammond's hands would be tied. And that, more than anything else, would be pissing the man off royally.

After half an hour of silent introspection – which he hated, by the way - self-flagellation, pointing out every single mistake and misstep to his idiotic, clueless, hormone-driven inner adolescent, Jack had turned his back to Carter's equally clueless, denial-laden blue eyes and faced the utterly undeniable truth that, as soon as Hammond returned, Jack's military career could well be over. He dropped his chin to his chest and shut his eyes.

Consequences – what a bitch.

Heavy steps sounded on metal stairs, slow and deliberate, the echo ringing out like the tolling of bells. Death peals. Jack stood, tugging down on his jacket, lifting his chin, bracing his shoulders for the blows that would fall there. Yeah. Hammond's figure rose from the stairway, military authority draped around him, eyes cold and distant. That … boded well. Not.

This wasn't Hammond about to relay bad news about a teammate - about Daniel. No, this wasn't about whatever had sent Daniel to the infirmary with Janet trotting along on one side and the Tok'ra bigwig carted alone on the other.

This was worse.

"Colonel. Major."

The general stood at the end of the conference table, hands at his sides, inviting no familiarity.

Of course, Carter hadn't gotten that memo, either.

"Sir? What's going on with Daniel?" Out of the corner of his eye, Jack watched her reach towards the nearest chair as if ready to sink down into it.

"I do not remember giving you either permission to speak or permission to sit, Major Carter."

It was the softness, the iron undergirding the fatherly tone that woke her up, smacked 'situation normal' right down into 'all fucked up' in that brilliant mind. It slapped her spine straight and her eyes forward and her mouth shut, thank God.

It was the honest disappointment in George Hammond's eyes that made Jack's stomach churn.

Jack was a good, if old, soldier. He knew the time for self-analysis, for contemplating his own sad-assed behavior and his undisciplined shirking of his duty as Commanding Officer of SG-1 was over, for the moment. He stood, eyes front, face wiped clean of emotion, mind wiped clean of excuses, braced for the impact of the honest truth from this man who had all of crusty, cantankerous Jack O'Neill's respect and devotion. No, Jack knew it was time to shut up and take what was coming to him.

"It has been brought to my attention that my Second in Command, the leader of the SGC's premiere team and its first line of defense against alien threat to this planet, may be involved in an Unprofessional Relationship with a member of his command as described under Air Force Instruction 36-2909. Unless and until an investigation finds that this … relationship … has in no way compromised his command, created the appearance of favoritism, or that these officers have not once misused their offices and positions and the SGC's – and Earth's – organizational goals for their personal interests, Colonel Jack O'Neill and Major Samantha Carter are hereby relieved of duty."

Quoted word for word from the Air Force Regs – Jack could hear the capital letters; could feel them twist in his gut. He watched Hammond barely shift his shoulders, summoning the two SFs who were rigid with tension behind him, the weight of this situation grinding them down to simple order-followers – letter of the law guys. Any previous respect or friendship or thoughts of camaraderie gone. Good men. They'd get no beef from Jack.

"These men will accompany you to your offices and your lockers where you will collect any personal items you may require until this investigation is over. You will leave this base and have no communication with each other or with any other member of this command until you have received express permission. During this Administrative Leave, I will be interviewing both Teal'c and Doctor Jackson, as well as other SG team and base personnel – both military and civilian – concerning this matter in order to determine the appropriate level of administrative action."

The Frat Regs spiraled through Jack's mind. _"Administrative actions include, but are not limited to, counseling, reprimand, creation of an unfavorable information file (UIF), removal from position, reassignment, demotion, delay of or removal from a promotion list, adverse or referral comments in performance reports, and administrative separation."_ Hammond would dot all the I's and cross all the T's. Now that this crap was out in the open, he had to – he had no choice. And he was clearly furious about it.

Teal'c would be honest – completely and brutally honest – without saying one thing that could possibly come back and bite either Jack or Carter. His loyalty wasn't to the Air Force or to the SGC, it was to Jack O'Neill and George Hammond and the individuals of SG-1 – his brothers in arms. But the Jaffa had eyes and ears, and he knew the kind of crap that Jack had been doling out over the past few months, had seen every single instance of bad judgment and worse attitude, and would place himself – the immovable, uncompromising rock of solid muscle and determination – to protect the person who had been – and would be – hurt the most by all this. Jack nodded to himself. He could count on Teal'c to be at Daniel's side when he and Carter disappeared behind the firmly slammed doors of Air Force regulations.

Only his years of discipline kept him from groaning out loud when he imagined Hammond's 'interview' with Daniel. The stubborn archaeologist's mind would start whirling, stacking up the evidence and instances of Jack's coldness, Carter's superiority-laced blow-offs, Jack's nastier than ever snark, every time he ignored Daniel's better judgment and went with Carter's facts and figures, every mile of distance between them as teammates and friends. Jack's cutting remarks in his own living room during the sting, Jack's thoughtless insults on Euronda. What did the regulations state? If a relationship caused "_a degradation of morale, good order, discipline or unit cohesion, a commander or supervisor should take corrective action."_ Hell, yes. Where's the circle to fill in for 'All of the Above?'

And, knowing him, Daniel would be on the computer, looking up the letter of the law quicker than a rabbit on speed and putting together arguments and rationalizations that would get Jack and Carter out of the hot water they'd set to boil themselves, even if it curdled his own gut and singed his own morals. And still left him out in the cold.

Hammond's momentary hesitation and his fraction of a glance towards the SFs at his sides brought Jack back to focus. "For the moment, this leave will be classified as Medical Leave following the influence of alien technology. And I hope I do not have to tell you," Hammond continued, strict and unbending, "that I would be gratified to find that this … situation … was a misunderstanding due to the stress of the Zatarc attacks and the involvement of untested Tok'ra technology. The SGC is the very definition of a unique command, and, as such, I would be remiss if I did not take the time to consider … unlikely explanations for your behavior."

At least Jack's discipline had held him at stiff attention while his mind worked, never revealing his sudden flush of shame and relief. Nice 'out' the general was hinting about, hinting about with a big fat baseball bat to the back of his brain. George Hammond didn't want to see this, didn't want to break Jack's – and Carter's - careers over this, didn't want to destroy the foundation of the SGC and undercut every time he'd come out swinging on Jack's behalf. And if Jack screwed that up, well, searching Hammond's shuttered features he knew the general would be completely, undeniably ruthless.

"Thank you, sir," he replied, back straight, all soldier, catching a flickering trace of agreement behind his CO's icy stare.

"Dismissed."

The disdain in that one word sprayed along Jack's skin like scalding water. Turning neither right, nor left, he saluted, marched forward – his personal SF in tow – and made for the hills.

Behind him, he heard Carter trying – again. So used to having her own way. So used to being the golden child, the one everyone deferred to. His fault – all of it. Hammond slapped her down with a single breath and Jack increased his speed before she could disobey any other direct order by trying to talk to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Daniel bore the doctors' and nurses' pokes and prods stoically, having met Janet's eyes across the aisle from where she was hovering around Per'sus' bed and gotten the stern 'be good' message loud and clear. Anise was there, leaning close over the Tok'ra leader, healing device quiet and dark in one hand. The two spoke softly –intimately – their body language isolating them within the busy infirmary, making it clear that Janet – or anyone else – should not try to interfere.

The Tok'ra were fiercely proud and fiercely protective of their privacy. They'd existed on the edge of extinction for centuries, clawing for survival in a universe dominated by their enemies. They were, technically, Goa'uld, no matter how much they loathed that word: two minds sharing one body. That fact alone, not to mention the race's history of seeing humans as slaves, beings who were created only to serve their masters, had colored their view of all unblended humans at a very basic level. Tools. Or enemies. Enemies who looked exactly the same as friends until it was too late to notice.

Daniel watched, eyebrows quirking, as Anise leaned down and pressed her cheek against Per'sus', whispering softly. They'd witnessed so few acts of kindness or caring among the Tok'ra, barring Martouf. They'd seen only the arrogance, the ruthlessly practical tactics and strategies that may have kept them alive for the centuries of their struggle, but had also alienated them from any vestige of humanity, confirming, at least in Jack's eyes, that they were cold and calculating machines. 'Inhuman.'

He breathed a muffled laugh, dropping his chin to his chest. If the Tok'ra still had trouble seeing humans as little more than either Goa'uld chattels or potential hosts, then the people of the SGC were equally guilty of looking at the Tok'ra and seeing only Goa'uld tyrants in sheep's clothing.

Daniel had no misconceptions about the treaty he'd helped craft. It would help, yes. It would ease some things between the SGC and the Tok'ra, smooth some ruffled feathers back in Washington, but, between their treatment of Tealc's Shaunauc and their manipulation with the Atonik armbands – and now _this_ – he shook his head. The treaty might be worth the paper it was printed on, but only just. Filled with vague promises and carefully worded caveats that left out far more than it stated, the papers' edges were stained with the blood of both sides.

But governments loved treaties. Set the dates of their signings into stone as if that could cut the words deeply into the hearts of the men and women who would carry them out.

It had felt like busy work.

A 'gifted' child thrust into a public school system that was more foreign to him than a Greek agora, Daniel had learned about busy work at a young age. Finish your classwork, finish your assignment before all of the other children were done, and what reward did you receive? More work. Not time alone with the toys forbidden to him at recess by those bigger and stronger, not peace to write in his journal, or a time to just sit quietly and stare out into a city that was not his home. He slid his fingers along the silk of his discarded tie, feeling the rough calluses catch and pull at the delicate fabric. Here, at the SGC, standing between the Earth and utter destruction, Daniel had been given the busy work while Jack and Sam fought to keep their sanity. Kept out of the way, in the background, trading phrases and connotations with the 'paper pushers,' people who the rest of SG-1 wouldn't give the time of day.

In a search for weapons and technology, Daniel Jackson had nothing else to do.

Standing in Jack's holding cell, the chasm between them had never been wider. A chasm chiseled over months by hasty words and thoughtless actions, by deliberate turning away, turning towards, and by a growing unease between two men who had once been closer than brothers. He'd noticed the distance all at once, turned his head one day to speak and realized Jack was not as his side. Had not been at his side for a long time. Concerned, blaming himself for his distraction, for failing to reach out, failing to try hard enough, he'd tracked down his best friend and found that his space had already been filled. And Jack was smiling into a different set of blue eyes.

The warm shell that had held them all together, all four of them, protected them from any attempt to pry them apart, held them tight within the amber of friendship and respect, of deep empathy and understanding, had broken. Tiny cracks, minor flaws, differences of upbringing, of philosophy and discipline, had grown wide as the balance shifted around them, and Jack and Sam had drifted close enough to touch.

Their crystal shell had burst, loud and sudden, shooting out splinters that lodged in hearts and minds. And Teal'c and Daniel had been flung away, left to drift among the shards.

Daniel took a slow breath and ripped his gaze from the moment of tenderness between the Tok'ra man and woman. He rubbed one hand against his still aching chest and dragged his mind back to surface thoughts, to treaties and diplomats and the correct wording of appeasement without submission and threats that had no teeth. If this was to be his work, he would do it.

Finally, Anise stepped back and sent a sharp look over her shoulder towards the SGC's Chief Medical Officer. Daniel watched Janet bristle, stretching her neck as if to use every inch of her five-foot-nothing to meet the Tok'ra eye to eye. Yeah, those two would never be friends, would they? Janet motioned her staff forward and Anise stepped away with obvious reluctance.

"Doctor Jackson?"

Daniel looked up, surprised. "General. I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

One hand rested lightly on Daniel's shoulder. "That's okay, son. I just wanted to see how you – and the High Councilor – were doing."

Frowning, Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. General Hammond was pale, his lips tight, eyes dimmed in that guarded expression he wore during the worst missions, the determined blandness that never quite hid his anxiety. Or anger. Something was wrong – something beyond Zatarcs, a visit from the President, dead airmen, and an injured alien dignitary. He glanced around for Teal'c, hoping to get some inside information, but the rest of SG-1 must be busy mopping up the blood – literally, this time.

He'd just opened his mouth to insist he was fine when Anise drifted over and beat him to it.

"Martouf's blow splintered several bones in Doctor Jackson's chest and shoulder. His subsequent movements sent the shards deeper into his body, tearing through muscle and damaging his heart." She folded her hands at her waist and smiled briefly. "Thankfully, High Councilor Per'sus acted swiftly to heal the damage. Both he and Doctor Jackson will need to rest for approximately one hour before they return to negotiations. The High Councilor reached deep for this healing."

Daniel shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "Oh, I think I'm –"

Anise's eyes flashed gold. "The High Councilor insists."

"And so do I," Hammond added.

Great. Daniel sighed and leaned back against the pillows propped up behind him, refusing to acknowledge the remnants of pain, the solid ache that was the upper half of his body. "Okay, I can see when I'm outvoted," he mumbled with ill-concealed impatience.

"Don't worry, son. We'll keep the President busy until you and Per'sus," Hammond nodded solemnly, catching the Tok'ra's eye across the infirmary, "can join us."

"General Hammond," Anise half turned so that she could make eye contact with both men, a pained look on her face. "I must apologize for my earlier inaccurate assessment of Major Carter and Colonel O'Neill as potential Zatarcs. I assure you, had I understood the matter, asked the correct questions, we might have moved on to other possibilities and considered Martouf a suspect in time to save more lives."

Daniel frowned. He'd been trapped in a well-pressed suit while Jack and Sam were fighting through doubt and fear, scrutinized by Anise and her machine. He squirmed uneasily. "What did happen? I mean the last I knew, Sam was going to be sedated and Jack had agreed to more testing." Possibly fatal testing. To save Sam. He shook his head, immediately angry with himself. Of course – it was a perfectly 'Jack' thing to do. Protect. Place himself between any threat and his team. It was his first instinct, one that Daniel admired and found frustrating at the same time.

It didn't matter at all that it was Sam.

The silence seemed to raise the familiar beeps and clicks of the infirmary to ear-splitting levels. Daniel looked up into the general's fixed expression – eyes chips of blue granite, the hint of a snarl curling his lips. Whoa. "General?"

Anise stepped in again. "The restrictive mores and regulations of your world – and of the SGC – are still very new to me. Had I known that revealing the emotional connection between your two officers was … problematic … I would have worded my questions more delicately."

_Emotional connection_. Daniel stilled, suddenly cold, a spear of dread sliding towards his gut. Of course. That moment on Apophis' new ship had been the focus of Anise's investigation – those few minutes when Jack and Sam were out of sight. They'd been separated – Sam, trapped. What must Jack have gone through, knowing there was nothing he could do to save her? The turmoil of emotion – and Jack's firm denial of it - must have registered in the Zatarc detector as deceit.

He allowed a trickle of air to penetrate the thick wad of bitterness in his throat. Breathe. So what if Jack had left Daniel behind much more easily all those years ago when he'd been torn apart by staff weapon fire on Apophis' invading ship? One look, one touch, and he'd been gone. Eyes focused on the mission. More distressed by Skaara's seeming death than …

_Stop it_. Daniel glanced back at Hammond's face. Jack would have had to admit his feelings to satisfy Anise's quite superficial understanding of human reactions. Admit he was in love with a junior officer. In front of the Tok'ra. Janet. Teal'c. And all the hungry cameras and automatic recordings that came with working on base. No more hiding it, no more pretending. He closed his eyes, trying to stifle the surge of bile, the furious shout that wanted to erupt from behind the ache in his chest. It didn't matter – nothing mattered. It was out there, and Daniel would do what he could to help them. What a friend should do. He'd been a friend, he hoped, no matter what Jack had done or said. No matter how Sam had pressed hard to be the one at Jack's side, the one he listened to, to widen their gap of philosophy and experience into a chasm of condescension and scorn. No matter that the illicit romance drew battle lines right down the center of SG-1, lines that were clear and sharp and jagged at the edges, severing Daniel and Teal'c, severing friendships and balance and hope.

Daniel had tried to catch himself before he'd lashed out in the petty jealousy of an adolescent, and said words he'd never be able to take back. He'd let Jack's anger and hostility, Sam's impatience and disregard, wash over him and drain away.

Hadn't he?

"It's all right, Anise," Hammond managed to spit out between jaws held too tight to move. "I am sorry, of course, for Martouf's death, but I don't think there's anything else you could have done." The general's gaze seemed to slide from away from Daniel's eyes.

Daniel shifted to search Anise's blank face. Blank. Apologetic. And … something else. Something else was hidden behind those wide eyes.

_Yeah, you missed your chance, sweetie_, he heard himself think.

A sudden cramp in his right hand distracted him and he looked down at stark white knuckles, fist clenched so tightly around his balled-up necktie that the pain struck out in slivers of fire up his arm. He couldn't seem to let go. Bitter laughter threatened – he couldn't let go. Yes, that was definitely his problem.

"Doctor Jackson – Daniel," the general's voice was subdued, concern outweighing his obvious anger for the moment, but Daniel couldn't seem to look up, to tear his eyes from the glaring evidence of his not being in the least bit 'fine.' The hand on his shoulder tightened and a stuttering sigh washed cold air over him. He shivered.

He didn't want to hear it. Whatever the general was going to say, whatever strangled explanation or excuse or apology, or, more likely, demand for silence or secrecy – he just didn't. He'd never begrudge his friends' happiness, if that was what this was, no matter the stifling Air Force regulations. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Unfortunately, this time – this one time – the 'flighty' civilian could see just why the regulations existed. Could see it – could feel it – had been living it since … since Jack and Sam's first sappy look across a briefing room table. Whatever Hammond wanted to say, whatever assurances or warnings he wanted to give, Daniel just needed a minute, just one minute to put everything back into its box and pull out the 'good buddy' and 'loyal friend' from behind the drenching rain of sorrow and regret and loss. To mourn his own losses. SG-1 was gone.

"I'll let you rest, son. Check in with me when Doctor Frasier releases you."

A few fumbled pats and then the general's heavy tread made its way to the door. Daniel fixed his mind on page sixteen, paragraph B of the Tok'ra treaty, still unhappy with the wording concerning sharing 'relevant' information. He let his emotions settle, sink deep, back beneath solid, well-crafted coverstones carved with the runes of ancient languages spelling out dire warnings and portents of disaster if disturbed. The language of diplomacy had been added to his count sometime during his first year of 'gate traveling – losing himself within the double-speak of positive assurances which actually promised nothing uncurled his fingers, relaxed his muscles, and allowed him to withdraw from the emotional carnage to take refuge within his mind.

Gradually, voices faded, the clipped echoes of uniform heels retreated, the whisper of cloth, hands smoothing sheets and blankets, and the squeak of wheels quieted. Daniel's mind calmed, buried in the work, discarding useless wishes and might-have-beens, ignoring the remembered warmth of a strong arm around his shoulders, a crooked smile across a campfire, sharing the rapid-fire back and forth of ideas and suppositions with a brilliant teammate, or the tight bonds that had helped Daniel back time after time – back from bleeding despair, from addiction, from new gaping holes the universe seemed determined to tear through his soul. He put them away with other remnants of the past – his and so many others' - and gathered up his determination to go forward. Always forward. Looking back was futile. Huh. Funny philosophy for an archaeologist, wasn't it?

The warmth of the room, the weight of exhaustion, and a moment of peace between crises old and new combined to pull him towards sleep.

"The sky of my homeworld was once blue, filled with the cries of Apalla gulls as they dived and soared over the deep green of the Prasian Sea, gold wings folded to plunge beneath the calm waters, searching for food."

Colors painted across Daniel's inner eye, bright and beautiful. The serenity of the placid waves, the feel of the wind on his face as the birds passed close, salt spray on his lips making him smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"The sky of my homeworld was once blue, filled with the cries of Apalla gulls as they dived and soared over the deep green of the Prasian Sea, gold wings folded to plunge beneath the calm waters, searching for food."

Colors painted across Daniel's inner eye, bright and beautiful. The serenity of the placid waves, the feel of the wind on his face as the birds passed close, salt spray on his lips making him smile.

The voice, soft and rich, surrounded him. "In my childhood I would sit and watch them for hours, fingers sifting the dark brown sand, sculpting it into towers, the sweeping lines of the Diami hills, the tufted ears of my pet lieri. I find that I miss those hours of simple solitude, alone beneath the darkening sky, thoughts drifting with the languid waves."

Daniel released the vision and opened his eyes.

"Life beneath the ground affords little opportunity for solitary contemplation, for the life of the soul. Although our numbers dwindle, friends and lovers disappearing daily through the Chappa'ai, never to return, the tunnels are full of sound – jarring."

Per'sus stood beside him, one hand on the bed next to Daniel's hip, seemingly casual. If not for the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes and the pale shade of his lips, Daniel would believe the Tok'ra High Councilor was completely recovered, casually sharing fond memories of easier days. He nodded towards an empty chair in invitation, relieved when Per'sus carefully lowered himself to perch on the edge.

"You miss solitude? Being alone?" Daniel asked. The Tok'ra were never alone, not even in their own minds.

A sudden smile brightened Per'sus's usually controlled features. "Not in the sense you mean. I would not give up my blending for anything, Doctor Jackson."

"Daniel."

He tipped his head in pleased acceptance. "Daniel. But the bustle of those who surround me with their well-intentioned concerns and crucial demands – well, the endless coastlines of my homeworld are a pleasant daydream."

Daniel leaned forward to hug his bent knees. "How long has it been since you were there?"

The Tok'ra shook his head. "Since the first years of our blending. Even though I was young, Per'sus was already quite advanced within the hierarchy of the Tok'ra. His time has always been filled with duty, with more tasks than there are hours in a day, as your people would say."

"Oh," Daniel raised his head, blinking. "You're – you're the host? I'm sorry, I don't know your name –"

"Tymon."

"Tymon – 'a reward; an honor.'" Daniel translated the Greek-derivative; he couldn't help it. He felt the rush of heat to his face. "Sorry –" he began.

Tymon laughed quietly. "It is quite all right. My parents had been saddled with eight daughters before I arrived. I believe my father named me in an eruption of relief and gratitude."

"Eight older sisters," Daniel laughed with him. "It's a wonder you got any time to yourself at all."

Tymon's eyes were pale blue, smiling. He looked years younger as he relaxed into the infirmary chair that was usually left for Jack. His features were softer, less the stern diplomat, more a hesitant acquaintance reaching out for friendship. Sharing something of his soul. Daniel leaned his cheek on his knees, feeling the pull of professional inquiry ebb into personal curiosity. This was … nice. Pleasant. Just two people talking without fear of misunderstanding or the feeling that every word, every glance, was charged with ill-concealed mistrust.

"Ah, yes," Tymon leaned forward, gaze darting carefully towards shadowed corners, as if to share a secret, "I was quite fast on my feet in those days, and knew exactly where to hide to avoid the household chores that seemed to fill my sisters' world." The smile turned playful. "A skill Per'sus and I have honed to near perfection since our blending."

Eyebrows rising, Daniel couldn't help leaning towards him in response. "You, the Great High Councilor of the Tok'ra, _hide_?"

"Don't _you_? Daniel Jackson, the Great Translator and Diplomat, Opener of the Earth's Stargate?" He tsked under his breath. "Surely you have found a place within your own tunnels to secrete yourself away from time to time."

"Oh, believe me," Daniel's lips twisted wryly, "I'm not in that great of a demand." Not lately, anyway. No impromptu dinners out or movie nights with the gang for quite a while. Not much interest in culture and history – not when the focus was on finding the ultimate weapon. "No, no, I'm pretty safe in my office." He crooked two fingers in the air. "'Translation emergencies' are pretty rare."

Tymon frowned, confusion narrowing his eyes and Daniel realized his mistake. "Oh! I mean, not until the treaty negotiations. Earth's alliance with the Tok'ra is the most important item on everyone's agenda right now," he hurried to explain. "The President doesn't come here, well, _ever_, so-"

A large hand rested gently against Daniel's upper arm. "Daniel. Please, be at ease." The smile was back. "I was simply surprised that someone with your background, with your impressive list of accomplishments and skills, is not constantly barraged with demands on your time."

Daniel let out a breath. "Don't get me wrong – I'm busy. Teams are always bringing videos and photos of off-world finds, samples of writing, artifacts, or recordings of alien languages, my desk is –"

"Forgive me, Daniel." Tymon's eyes widened, his free hand gesturing towards the four walls, the mountain, the SGC. "I meant no disrespect. I guess I don't really understand what you do here. What your role consists of."

_Me neither_. The words popped into Daniel's mind automatically. He fought to keep that light, comfortable atmosphere, struggled to hold onto the feeling of easy relaxation.

"I expected the warriors – the soldiers. Those who have the responsibility of giving difficult orders and those who follow them. And scientists. Administrators such as myself, experts in strategy and tactics. And those who work to provide the necessities of life for those who risk lives and souls to protect your people." His eyes warmed. "I did not expect _you_, Daniel."

"You knew of SG-1…"

"Of course." Tymon leaned backward, allowing his fingers to brush along Daniel's arm as he retreated. It was less a movement made to deliberately place space between them – Daniel would have recognized that move anywhere, he'd seen it so much lately – and more an act of ease, a giving in to contentment. "From Selmac, from Anise, from poor Lantash – or, rather, from their hosts – I've learned much of SG-1, of the irreverent Colonel O'Neill, the clever – and beautiful - Major Carter, the formidable Teal'c," the half-smile on his face was playful, "and of you."

"Oh." Daniel lowered his eyes. His team - they were amazing. Brilliant. Brave. Teal'c would be welcomed on any SG team, the epitome of strength and courage. Sam – would she stay on base? Take another team? Devote herself to research? They'd be foolish to transfer her – she was needed here. And Jack. Second in Command. Daniel shook his head. He didn't understand all the ins and outs of the frat regs, but could they both stay? Or would this tear not just his team apart, but the entire SGC?

And that left Daniel with … what, exactly?

Tymon's voice was suddenly perplexed, frustrated. "Your wary military, your careful politicians, your eager scientists and outright distrustful officers – they have their counterparts on Vorash. But, you. I have nothing in my broad experience of human interaction to compare with someone like you."

Daniel looked up, squashing his instinctual urge to hear the Tok'ra's words as insults, to pile them up with recent evidence that his usefulness was in question. He took a deep breath and listened.

"You are a scholar, true – we have scholars. But they are protected, living not on a working base such as Vorash, but hidden away on safer planets out among the stars. Our Tok'ra history, the bloodlines, the genealogies of our few families and our fewer converts," Tymon shook his head again, "we do nothing that would risk the knowledge that they keep."

Families? Converts? Daniel's mind filed the new information away with the scraps of Intel he'd garnered during the negotiating process.

"And yet your people expose you," the sheer disbelief was blatant on the Tok'ra's face, "a man who possesses the knowledge of countless cultures, their languages and rituals, and has the character and _openness_ to approach those who are truly alien with honesty and fortitude, they expose _you_ to the very evil they are so determined to keep from their homeworld."

Daniel adjusted his glasses, trying to resist meeting the High Councilor's description of him with bitterness. "Would you have me stay behind? Hide behind our iris and the walls of this mountain instead of facing our enemies? Doing my best to do _whatever_ was necessary to fight the Goa'uld?" He couldn't help it, couldn't keep his voice from rising, his words from snapping out in unconcealed anger. He would not hide away, no matter what. No matter who wanted him to. He'd fight for a team placement. If transferring to the base was what General Hammond was hinting at -

"No – you misunderstand." Tymon reached out again, but let his hand fall to one knee as Daniel bristled. "I know you have fought, you have stood proudly against the evil of the Goa'uld. It was you and Colonel O'Neill who defeated Ra – one who was, it was thought, untouchable. You dived into Ne'tu itself to rescue Major Carter's father."

Daniel nodded, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

"I suppose I am trying to reconcile your collection of gifts and talents with those from the Tok'ra, and, to state it simply," he shrugged as if excusing his faulty words, "I am unable to … nuwaaq … to place you." He huffed, frustrated. "I do not know-"

"Categorize."

They turned, watching Teal'c move forward into the pool of light cast by the lamp behind Daniel's head. As hard as stone, as big as a house, and as quiet as a cat – that was Daniel's teammate.

"Thank you, Teal'c," Tymon sighed. "'Categorize.' Indeed." He shook his head ruefully. "You simply do not fit, Daniel."

_Ouch_.

"Daniel Jackson fits well within SG-1. Perhaps better than any other."

Thanks, Teal'c. Daniel flashed a grateful smile at his stalwart friend. He was surprised by the sorrowful, guarded expression on Tymon's face when he turned back.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to offend," the Tok'ra stated, pulling his shoulders back, sitting rigidly upright on the edge of the chair. The diplomat was back.

"You didn't," Daniel was quick to reassure. "Tymon. Honesty shouldn't offend. A great Earth poet once said, 'The highest compact we can make with our fellow is - _Let there be truth between us two forevermore.'" _He didn't want the diplomat, the High Councilor, all stodgy and correct behind his inoffensive mask. He wanted the one who shared memories of his homeworld, who talked about his eight sisters and grateful father. _Please_.

The Tok'ra eyed Teal'c warily, as if uneasy with the idea of honesty within the Jaffa's hearing.

"Teal'c." Daniel plucked at his wrinkled and dusty pants, his stained shirt. "Would you mind getting me my uniform from the locker room?" He glanced towards Tymon, reminding him of their tentative connection. "I think the time for my 'diplomacy suit' is over."

Teal'c's half-closed eyes were bright, taking in the casual proximity of the Tok'ra leader, raking over Daniel as if to convince himself of his complete recovery. He moved a step closer, leaning over him protectively. "You are sure, Daniel Jackson?"

Daniel heard the distrust, the scolding, accusatory tone. The ghost of Shaunauc hovered here, her murder too close to allow any sense of trust between Teal'c and the Tok'ra. Daniel didn't blame him, no, not at all. But, Daniel needed this, needed friendship. Comfort. Connection. Especially –

"I'm sure. Please – if you wouldn't mind?"

The Jaffa bowed regally and turned to go. Daniel felt the weight of his condemnation until long after he'd disappeared beyond the doorway. That Daniel was comfortable within the regard of any Tok'ra, let alone the Tok'ra leader – it must feel like betrayal to his righteously furious teammate.

But vengeance had never been Daniel's way. And this simple offer of friendship – of a deeper, more personal connection – it poured balm on some of the fiercest of Daniel's aches, filled in some of the emptiness. He turned back to Tymon, relaxing back into the pillows beneath him.

"Tell me more about your homeworld."

oOo

Changing into civvies, tossing a few things into his duffle while the SF loomed over his shoulder, Jack had locked up his emotions – and his regrets – tighter than a fellow Irishman at closing time. The SG-1 badge on the sleeve of his uniform could glare all it wanted, the blue-eyed man in the team photo tacked to his locker door could try to catch his eye, the familiar smells and sounds of the base around him try to slip behind his protective, emotionless armor. But it was that last sight of Daniel - flat on his back on a medical gurney being rushed out of the 'gate room – that churned his internal bulwarks to mud. What the hell happened? Why had Daniel collapsed? Was he okay? Alive? Ready and able to kick Jack's ass into next week for his stupid, stupid, completely _stupid_ antics?

He stood and flung the duffle over his shoulder just as the locker room door burst open. Teal'c's eyes were narrowed dangerously, his face dark with rage, mouth turned down in the habitual grimace of his first years on SG-1.

The SF stepped forward, one hand raised. Brave guy, Jack thought, as Teal'c simply glared at him and then walked directly to Daniel's locker, eyes sliding away from Jack's face as slick as fingers on a greased pig. He slammed the metal door open and reached inside, his back to Jack – the SF – the entire world, probably.

"Daniel Jackson has been healed by the Tok'ra, Per'sus, and requires his uniform." He spoke to the folds of blue cloth fisted in his hands. "Per'sus has insisted that he be allowed rest before the treaty is finalized."

"Sir, I have to ask you to cease speaking with Colonel O'Neill. He's-"

The big guy cut off the SF with one eyebrow. "I was not speaking to O'Neill."

"Oh. Well, then … thank you, sir." The poor kid nodded and stepped back, swallowing loudly.

Yeah, thanks, T. Jack blew out a breath and headed for the door. Fingers just touching the handle, the deep voice behind him brought him up short.

"If I were speaking with O'Neill, I would tell him that he must return to duty swiftly, letting go the foolishness of his recent actions."

He could feel dark eyes boring into his back, drilling down to the heart of him. Jack shivered.

"And, if he does not," the locker door slammed, the sound too final, too heartbreaking, "the future for this world – and for those closest to his heart – will be bleak, indeed."

Jack didn't turn, he didn't give in to the sudden, intense pressure to sideswipe the SF, ignore Hammond's orders, and find out exactly what Teal'c was talking about. The Jaffa's cryptic message lodged like unexploded ordinance in his ribcage and Jack knew – he _knew_ – Teal'c could only be talking about one thing. One person.

Daniel.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Outwardly, Daniel painted the bland diplomat's mask onto his features, eyebrows allowed a slight twitch at Per'sus' last minute – and completely unexpected - addendum to the new treaty. Inwardly, he squirmed under the sudden intense scrutiny aimed in his direction. By Hammond, by the Pentagon liaison officer, Tok'ra guards, diplomats, and by the President himself.

Across the table, Per'sus seemed as unflappable as ever, but was that a mischievous glimmer in the steady blue gaze? The hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth? Daniel narrowed his eyes and was rewarded by a tiny widening of the Tok'ra's with a definite, 'who, me?' about it.

"Doctor Jackson?"

He turned smoothly, as if he had been listening carefully to the President all along. "I am as surprised as you are, sir, but not … adverse … to the High Councilor's request."

Hammond wasn't happy. One chair to Daniel's left, the general was shifting position, steadying himself on the conference table in front of him, ready to speak – to quietly refuse, to gently redirect Per'sus' insistence somewhere else. "Unfortunately, SG-1 is not available at this time to accompany Doctor Jackson on an extended visit with the Tok'ra, High Councilor. Their schedule-"

Per'sus inclined his head just a fraction. "I did not request the entirety of SG-1, General Hammond. Simply Doctor Jackson. After all," he spread his hands over the table, "how can we hope to understand one another if we do not spend time together? And I sense," his mouth crooked, "that you are … uncomfortable … with the presence of symbiotes on your world for any length of time."

"Certainly there are other Earth teams – teams more focused on diplomacy, on the sharing of culture and philosophy, that could be found," the president offered. He glanced at his watch – again – and then caught the impatient glance of his aide down the length of the table. "We would be happy to discuss the semi-permanent relocation of a specialized team to Vorash to interact more freely with the Tok'ra and learn your ways."

Per'sus' stare grew harder, sharper, and he leaned forward. "Who better to share your culture than the man who has made its history and development his lifetime study? Who decoded your Stargate when all other attempts had failed?" He turned back to Daniel. "We believe Doctor Jackson to be the best choice – we have heard much about him from our friend Jacob Carter, and, during these past few weeks of discussion, we have come to trust him. _That_ is not said lightly."

The not-so-simple statement of trust shocked Daniel and he barely managed to nod in honest gratitude. "I'm honored."

"Perhaps I could release Teal'c to-"

Daniel stretched out one hand along the table in silent apology for his interruption. "General, I don't think that would be a good idea." There was a reason Teal'c was standing _outside_ the door of the conference room on guard and not at the president's back. Everyone on base had known that no real common ground could be paved under the shadow of the Jaffa's glowering disapproval. "Sir, I feel perfectly safe among the Tok'ra, especially as the guest of the High Councilor himself." Every muscle in Hammond's body seemed pulled tight, a flush rising up his neck. Daniel hurried on. "And, with the current situation concerning Shaunauc and Tanith, I don't think sending Teal'c among the Tok'ra right now would do anything but increase tensions and possibly lead to the kind of incident this treaty is designed to avoid."

A gold flash from across the table turned every gaze towards Per'sus' narrowed eyes. "If you are so concerned with Doctor Jackson's welfare among us, perhaps the foundation for this treaty is too weak to allow any kind of alliance between our people." The resonant voice of host and symbiote gave the High Councilor's pronouncement double the weight and Daniel shuddered. Whether it was the unwelcome memories of other Goa'uld warnings of the past or the choice of Per'sus' words – echoing the slick sarcasm of Jack's dismissal in his living room months ago – it brought Daniel up short, chewing at the edges of the calm attitude of confidence that had begun to build between them.

"Doctor Jackson is willing – I don't see the problem, General."

The president certainly wasn't going to take no for an answer. Daniel sat quietly, watching Hammond's pale face, watching how his features seemed to harden into stone, and wondered if the general knew something he didn't.

"Very well." He turned towards Daniel. "I will require a daily check-in, Doctor Jackson. I'm hoping we won't be sidelining SG-1 for an extended period of time. And if we need your expertise…"

"I'll only be a wormhole away," Daniel smiled tightly, as eager to ease Hammond's fears as to remind himself – as well as the Tok'ra – that the connection between the SGC and Daniel Jackson was the length of seven glyphs and one step.

It didn't help. General Hammond was worried, more worried than usual. Shadowed blue eyes held his, intent on passing on a message, warning Daniel of some underlying threat. He frowned, a tiny shake of his head hopefully telling the general that Daniel didn't understand. His mind shuffled through possible threats, scenarios and schedules, until his inner barriers sagged under the heavy weight of the obvious, of the knowledge he'd held back during these negotiations, shoring up his unsteadiness with the tentative friendship offered by Tymon.

Jack and Sam. The future of SG-1. Maybe decisions had already been made, resignations, transfers, and recommendations – all hidden behind closed military doors. And Daniel, the civilian, was left in the dark to try to fumble his way.

At least it looked like Hammond wanted to tell him before he left. He supposed he should be grateful for that.

He took a slow breath and then aimed a thin smile across the table at his Tok'ra host. "If you wouldn't mind if I joined you in a few hours? I do have a few personal matters to attend to before I can be off-world for an extended time. You understand."

Per'sus face cleared. "Of course. Shall we say six hours?" The Tok'ra was again all amiable generosity. "Will that be enough time?"

Daniel kept himself from glancing towards the general at his side. "Yes. Perfect." He adjusted his glasses. "And perhaps one thing we can discuss on Vorash is setting up a rotating schedule of visiting individuals and teams on both sides."

Per'sus' nod was slow and thoughtful. "We will have many interesting discussions, Daniel. Of that I have no doubt."

"Excellent." The president stood and extended his hand. The Tok'ra did not hesitate to complete the gesture.

A few minutes later, after watching Teal'c lead the president's escort back up towards the surface and his waiting plane, Hammond and Daniel said good-bye to the subdued group of Tok'ra at the base of the ramp. Anise paced deliberately, one hand resting on the heavily shrouded body of Martouf as he was borne along on a stretcher in a silent procession, each Tok'ra slowly swallowed up by the hungry sound of the event horizon. At last, Per'sus' smile was warm and Daniel was almost sure that it was Tymon who was assuring him that he'd be waiting to greet him at the Vorash 'gate in six short hours.

The loud snap of the wormhole closing left the underground bunker ringing with sound. Daniel and Hammond stood unmoving as the SFs relaxed their guard and were dismissed to duty stations. After another long minute of silence, Daniel turned to see Hammond studying the 'gate with weary eyes, shoulders slumped, the mask of controlled, disciplined leader slipping.

"Sir?" _Let's get this over with_, he thought to himself.

The older man faced him, obviously drawing on some inner well of strength and determination. "Daniel." His voice was solemn, nearly grieving. "Go home." He nodded as if agreeing with himself about something. "Maybe this mission will turn out to be a blessing in disguise."

A cold shiver crept up Daniel's spine as he translated the general's bitter words. 'Get the civilian out of the way.' Hammond was probably reeling from the damage to his command, from the repercussions of such startling changes, putting the evidence of months of vicious arguments and abrupt differences around the briefing room table together to find that there had been a land mine sitting right here, at the base of the ramp, for far too long. "If this puts you in an awkward position, I apologize," Daniel began. George Hammond was a good man. Had been a good friend. "Believe me, I had no idea Per'sus would request-"

"No, son." He reached out with one hand and clamped it onto Daniel's shoulder. "None of this is your fault. But there are some things I'm going to have to discuss with you before you leave."

"If you'd rather talk now, sir …"

Hammond shook his head. "No, no. It'll keep." He breathed out a sigh. "At least a little while. Go home. Get your thoughts and supplies together."

A sour tang burned Daniel's tongue. "I suppose I should call Jack. Tell him …"

"I'll take care of notifying Colonel O'Neill," the general interrupted quickly. "Then if you'd come to my office say, two hours before you're scheduled to head off, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course." The butterflies in Daniel's stomach had turned into lumps of red-hot coal. It was clear Hammond was done talking, for now, so he choked back the questions that raced up his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'll be back as soon as I can, sir."

"Thank you. And, thank you for all of your hard work on this treaty. What you've done here means a lot to me and to our work at the SGC." He squeezed Daniel's shoulder once and then let go. "I know it's been difficult, and I appreciate all you've done."

Daniel knew his answering smile was false - ugly. Why did Hammond's words sound so much like 'good-bye'? "I'm happy to have made a contribution, sir."

He watched Hammond move away, watched his stiff back as he exited the 'gate room, but found himself rooted to the spot just to the right of the ramp. He stifled an instinctual surge of regret and swept his gaze from the 'gate room, up the wall to the expanse of glass in the control room, and then on up to the smaller window in the briefing room. For a moment he thought he saw a shadowy figure there, standing very still, just at the edge of his sight. He blinked and it was gone.

Daniel gave himself an internal shake. Whatever Hammond had to tell him, wherever Sam and Jack had disappeared to, it was time to pull himself together. Solitary missions had become more and more common lately, and he concentrated on his mental checklist of chores and necessities as he made himself walk away from the 'gate. Distribute projects, requisition clean uniforms, pack his books and journals, and restock his supplies of ammo and batteries. Check in with Janet. His checklist used to be longer and involve reassuring teammates and friends that he'd remember to eat, to take his allergy meds, to sleep. Guess he'd outgrown all that.

Daniel had weathered a lot at the SGC. He'd adjusted, changed, to mold himself to the space they'd all defined for him. Explorer, scholar, conscience, hesitant soldier, interpreter, historian, friend, brother. If that definition had changed, he'd just have to change, too.

He could do that. Couldn't he?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Tymon sensed the brooding of his life-mate within him, saw Per'sus' thoughts and plans unwinding on the shared view screen of their minds even as he went through the outward motions of washing and clothing their body in the soft, well-worn tunic and pants woven by his adopted mother. The face of Daniel Jackson was prominent among the other humans', each word and silence of their interaction analyzed by his symbiote. The few flashes of emotion, the intelligence revealed in the scholar's carefully considered words, and the open vulnerability he displayed when he was convinced no one was looking – Per'sus dwelt there, sharply focused.

Tymon's movements slowed as he cradled the life within him with warmth and compassion. He knew this pattern – knew what Per'sus was doing. Thinking twelve steps ahead, trying to lose himself in planning and strategy, his mind always focused on the survival of the Tok'ra, on making the right decisions to ensure the future of his people, while he tried to force himself well beyond the morass of pain and loss that was yawning open-mouthed at his feet. Trying to remove himself from the edge of grief and rage, the widening of the ages-deep pool of death that lapped up his memories of Lantash.

Of his son.

Tymon had felt his mate's fury in the SGC 'gate room, his screaming denial at the short-sightedness of his own people that had led to a senseless death on a foreign world – and the host had wrested away control. While Per'sus raged within him, the scene was almost surreal to his human eyes; the grey of the surrounding stone walls seemed to leach the colors from each face, from Martouf's eyes, from the dark red rents in his tunic, and to steal the shouted voices, the sharp snap of the zatnicketel. Two shots. Two close shots that silenced another Tok'ra voice and closed dear eyes forever.

There was little hope for return from that death – no revival for body or bonded soul-mate. While Tymon would miss Martouf's friendship, his easy smile and steadfast affection, Per'sus' loss was much more intimate. Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh, the last genetic remnant of Per'sus' ancient bloodline. Now ended. Lantash. Jolinar. Martouf and Rosha. More victims of the ancient, timeless war with the Goa'uld. A war that had forced the Tok'ra into hiding, had stolen young lives, and slaughtered family, friends, and lovers one by one. All on behalf of a human race that wavered between merely ungrateful and violently disgusted by those who blended their lives and then laid them on the line for humanity's freedom.

All but a very few.

Even as Tymon had watched Daniel Jackson's collapse on the cold floor where Martouf had lain, Per'sus had cast himself wholly into the human's healing, into soothing the pain of his son's last unwillingly violent act, the symbiote's sorrow opening him to Daniel Jackson's injuries in a way that all Tok'ra habitually guarded against. The link that had been forged in those few moments of open, vulnerable connection had coiled tightly around Per'sus; he'd looked deep, had seen the human's craving for knowledge, his honest compassion, and a depth of woundedness that matched his own.

Lantash's death had opened a way for a new connection – an intimate bond through the healing device with a man who embodied the same kind of loyalty, the same understanding of the sweeping movements of history, and an amazing appreciation for the slow progress of change as Per'sus' son. Astonishing in one so young and so very … solitary … in his existence. Per'sus would not easily let that go.

Long, elegant fingers smoothed the thick cowl along the back of his neck. Tymon reached for Freya's hand and brought it to his lips absentmindedly, turning to face her.

"We mourn the passing of our brother." Her wide eyes were shadowed, uneasy. "If we had understood – if the human emotions had not been so unsettled," she shook her head.

Per'sus seethed within him. "We warned you. Lantash himself decried using this technology among the unblended." Tymon dropped her hand. "And now he is dead."

Anise's eyes shone and the lines of her face grew stark and cold. "He could not have known, he was already compromised-"

Tymon held up one hand and backed away a single step, staring down from his much greater height. "Do you hope to win this argument, Anise? When Lantash is held in a stasis field with barely a spark of life within him? When you've given the Tau'ri even greater proof that our science pales in comparison to their action and the life of two who are blended affords little more to recommend it than a double dose of arrogance?"

Anise's jaw clenched. "Per'sus would not-"

His lifemate's anger scorched his veins. "Do not presume, Anise, to step between my soul and myself."

The fire in her eyes died and the Tok'ra scientist bowed her head, exposing her neck in an age-old symbol of submission. Per'sus reluctantly acknowledged her unspoken apology and sank back into his musings, the edge of his anger still sharp within. Tymon gestured the woman to a seat and waited, breathing slowly to calm his heart and lend what strength he could to his symbiote's struggle.

He paced the length of his chamber, deliberately digging each bare foot into the soft pile of the hand-knotted carpet that kept the underground chill from his private rooms. He had been cold inside the Tau'ri's hidden base – seemingly so similar to the Vorash tunnels. It was not a coldness of the flesh, but a coldness of the spirit. Lifeless. Straight lines cut by the tools of man and bricks set one by one to guard the Ancient wonder. The Chappa'ai – no, _Stargate_ – that collection of harsh consonants seemed more fitting for the ugly, wounded thing that lay at the bottom of a dark shaft, clamped and steaming, wires and cords tying the marvel to the scurrying humans' awkward devices instead of standing proudly under the sky.

Per'sus understood caution, and the need to guard the safety of the Earth's 'gate. But Tymon had wondered if there was any place of peace and serenity within the mountain – a sanctuary such as his for the souls of men who loved beauty, who searched for deeper meanings amidst the warriors' struggles. Men like Daniel Jackson. Were his chambers warmer than their sterile, machine-hewn hallways? Did they reflect his character, display his heart, did they hold remembrances of his short journey through solitary years as Tymon and Per'sus' rooms mirrored the shared memories of many lifetimes?

Tymon drew his eyes across the carved wooden screen that divided his open, crystal-cut outer room from his inner sanctuary. Only a few were afforded this luxury within the limited caves of Vorash. Only the oldest, the wisest, perhaps, could claim a measure of privacy within the doorless honesty the Tok'ra culture demanded. Only Per'sus, Ren'al, Selmac, Delek, Tas'eem – so few remained of Egeria's generation. His gaze lingered on the painted blues and greens of the delicate screen, the blushing life of the Tok'ra support world, the bright birds and rugged hills, the smooth ivory foam of the cascading waves, the towering Cloister, sun burnishing the windows to gold, where young children learned of their noble calling, and waited, in hope, for the chance for a true life – a blended life – instead of the half-life of lonely humanity.

Reluctantly he looked away from the children's faces, so intent on their studies, the artistry that had so beautifully captured their eagerness to be deemed worthy. His gaze stuttered across the crowds of mothers and fathers, shepherding young ones towards the distant Chappa'ai, the jagged bolts of flame that struck from the tumbling clouds that hid the Goa'uld ships, the lifeless bodies strewn across the plain, Jaffa warriors in shining armor erupting from the wormhole bringing death and destruction. His fingers traced the group of figures lying motionless among the smoking ruins of the air field. They'd been among the last to fall, fighting until they could no longer lift their weapons, guarding the tel'tac which held the last three children ripe for blending. His family. Mother. Father. Sisters. Dead so that he might live.

Per'sus stirred within him, images of eons of similar attacks, oceans of blood – red and blue in equal measure, the rank smell of blackened flesh, faces of those well-loved and those unknown flashing in seemingly endless array from millennia of memories. And last, Lantash and Martouf. A swift sword of determination stabbed through his being – one soulmate to another – and ended in a promise: Daniel Jackson would not fall to the same fate. They would see that it was so, no matter the cost.

Tymon spun on his heel and stood before Anise. "Tell me of this breakthrough that you claim to have made with SG-1." She had leaned close to whisper within the Tau'ri infirmary, her claims sinking through the turmoil of Per'sus' thoughts and memories. "What is this vulnerability you have discovered?"

Anise folded her hands across her stomach. "As you know, although there are many teams within the Tau'ri command, SG-1 holds the most power and authority. SG-1 consists of four individuals –"

Her voice took on the cadence of a teacher and Tymon felt Per'sus writhe, annoyed. He sighed and caught her eye, watching as she visibly deflated. "Go on," he urged.

"We have long believed that, in order to fully understand the Tau'ri, to protect our claim to some small portion of the Earth's abundant population as future hosts, we must first convince SG-1. Convince them of their need for our help, as well as the great honor we will bestow on those worthy of the blending." She tilted her head. "Their voices raised with ours would sway the Earth government, would convince them of their danger from the Goa'uld, and soothe the fears of the humans, showing the positive consequences of blending."

In the absence of information, of true understanding of the humans of Earth, the Tok'ra strategy had been sound. Convince them of their need for protection, of the immensity of the Goa'uld threat and the breadth of their enemies' power, and thereby bring them into a one-sided alliance – one where the Tok'ra pieced out enough information to provide a measure of comfort and the Tau'ri provided a new pool of hosts. But now … Tymon nodded. "The situation with Tanith could not have occurred at a worse time."

"Indeed not," Anise agreed. "And the Atonik armbands did not prove to be the correct way to show the humans their utter weakness before their Goa'uld foes."

Tymon lowered himself to sit beside this woman – this sometime lover who had shared his bed for over a dozen years. Yet still he did not completely trust her. "These missteps must not be repeated." He took her hand and smoothed one thumb across her delicate skin. "Lantash understood that. He and Martouf counseled caution, and an attempt at true friendship – seeking a deeper connection to individual humans of the SGC." A true and honest connection. _Oh our son, we will honor your memory in this. _Per'sus' unquiet thoughts joined with his own in this pledge, this oath.

Freya relaxed at the small act of intimacy between them. "Colonel O'Neill rejected my announcement of sexual availability."

Brows rising, Tymon smothered Per'sus' continued impatience. "It has been said that he is a brusque man, unyielding and dismissive. However, I did not realize he had such poor taste," he smiled at her. "But you spoke of a breakthrough?"

"I found that the reason he refused was that he has already mated, in the superficial, human manner, with a female. With Major Carter."

Tymon cast through his memories of human bonding, of the rituals and regulations that surrounded the Tau'ri pairings. "Why would this bonding cause him to refuse you?" Traces of thoughts, fragments of conversations began to coalesce within his mind. Separation of dwellings, ancient words of slavish rituals among the conquered worlds of the System Lords. Per'sus looked on, momentarily startled from his anxious planning. He pressed a memory forward, a conversation between the new human host of ancient Selmac with the Tok'ra High Council.

"You have no mates among your own kind?" Garshaw had asked. "No one to whom you owe loyalty or offspring who require support?"

Per'sus had watched through the eyes of his host, silent, still reeling from the knowledge of Cordesh's betrayal and the loss of life of human and Tok'ra under the System Lords' bombardment.

Selmac had cocked his head as if listening. "My host's mate died tens of years ago and he has remained alone since that time."

"Alone?" Garshaw had leaned forward, frowning, blunt and honest, as always. "How unnatural."

"There is a phrase from the Tau'ri bonding ritual that seems to describe their … sentiments … about such things," Selmac had replied. "They swear to forsake all others until death." After a moment of reflection, he continued. "Jacob has shown me that his pledge – and his guilt - carried well beyond the grave, and kept him isolated from others, even his own children." His smile had been full of pain. "I am showing him that, with a true blending, his soul will again open to others, and he will never be alone."

Tymon sighed and curled his arms around Freya's narrow waist. "Do you believe this bonding will … soften Colonel O'Neill? That he will be at peace with his life, with others – even us - because of it?"

She twisted to look into his eyes. "That is unlikely. Based on his reaction – and those of others - to the announcement of their bonding, I believe that this 'forsaking of others' has and will continue to fracture the foundation of SG-1. That it will only serve to divide them. Already we have been told of their struggles, of the turmoil that surrounds their missions. We've seen Teal'c's boiling anger, Daniel Jackson's withdrawal." Freya placed one hand on Tymon's shoulder, her eyes troubled. "While they stood staunchly, bonds of friendship and fidelity strong, filled with loyalty and caution, SG-1 was the Goa'uld's greatest foe."

"And, some would say, ours."

She nodded. "Divided, they have no hope of standing – against the System Lords, or against our future for their world."

Tymon pulled her against him. "Martouf was right," he whispered into her hair. "You must see that now."

A breath against his skin, a soft sigh, revealed her reluctant agreement. "I should have listened. I should have realized that the intricacies of these humans' emotions were beyond science, beyond perfect understanding."

Sorrow surged from the depth of his being and Tymon closed his eyes. "How can we understand these humans when they are, so often, strangers to themselves?" The wave of despair and confusion he'd felt from Daniel Jackson, his longing for a small place of peace and rest within the SGC infirmary with an alien at his side – Tymon's awareness was held there by his symbiote, reminding him of the overwhelming flood of feeling, of unfocused need and unlabeled distress. "And, perhaps, this divide you speak of is but an opening of the way, a channel through which our own hand of friendship – of connection – may reach."

Within him, Per'sus' strategies blended and fused with his sorrow, loosing an anguished longing for a deeper link, a profounder mingling of souls and hearts with this last victim of his son, this wounded human, Daniel Jackson of SG-1.

_Ah, my friend_, Tymon soothed, tears just beneath the surface. _As one we mourn, as one we grieve, as one we dream. Always as one._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

What time was it on Vorash?

Daniel hurriedly shoved the two pound bag of ground beans into the open backpack on the passenger seat, took a long drink from the Venti cup in his hand and pulled back out onto the road. Evening was falling in Colorado Springs; streetlights were popping on as if to light his way. Traffic was crawling – men and women drifting home to families, grabbing dinner before the nightly round of homework and soccer games. The Starbuck's drive thru had been filled with minivans, but there was no way Daniel was going to head off to Vorash without a good supply of real coffee – not after his last stopover there after Netu. Talk about hell – dealing with an injured colonel, a pissy Jaffa, and the side effects of the Blood of Sokar without his caffeine fix was almost worse than the mission itself. Jacob may have given up coffee for his symbiote's sake, but Daniel was not going to be following his lead anytime soon.

His mind wandered a familiar track, tracing their descent onto the prison moon, their immediate capture, and the revelation that they were in the hands of Apophis. Apophis – alive, maimed, the star of Daniel's nightmares and secret dreams of bloody vengeance for years. A fierce, swelling rage had consumed Daniel, carrying him beyond the torture, the heaving nausea, and the reliving of some of his worst pain, his deepest losses, before they could escape.

Daniel tried to loosen the simmering tension in his neck, one hand kneading at muscles that had grown hard has rocks over the past few hours. He signaled and turned away from the main street, choosing the winding path of neighborhoods and developments over traffic lights and bumper cruising. 'Winding paths' – that was appropriate, defining his own journey through life, so different from the families' behind the warmly lighted windows around him, the mown grass and diligently trimmed bushes, bikes and skateboards left haphazardly on sidewalks, dogs on leashes. Never the expected for Daniel Jackson – no predictable years of research, teaching, tenure, publishing, home in the suburbs, 2.5 kids, a yearly vacation to Europe, a few digs in the Middle East, and retirement.

Riding through the galaxy on the wave of a spouting wormhole, or in an alien ship, surrounded by military regulations, ancient civilizations come to life, and two-faced allies and enemies, finding a wife – and losing her – slapping together a family out of those around him – he shook his head. Only a youth like Daniel's, filled with doubt and grief and the constant stops and starts and brutal changes that come with the foster care system could have possibly prepared him for a life like this. He was living mythology, had stepped into a science fiction story broader than any his father had lingered over during quiet moments between projects. With battles and spaceships, evil tyrants and mesmerizing technology - even some alien princesses. Daniel smiled at the thought that the people behind these well-tended gardens could watch the perils of the SGC while eating popcorn and jujubes and never believe a word of it.

A wave of loss washed over him. On second thought, maybe it wasn't a sci-fi story. Maybe it was a romance – a soap opera set in space. He huffed a wry laugh into the evening air. That would explain a lot.

At the next stop sign, Daniel placed his half-empty cup in the holder and put both hands on the wheel. The turn onto Elm Street required some focus. A twisting, winding road lined with full growth trees, their draping branches reaching out towards the cars like arms clothed in tattered rags reduced visibility and gave the area an aura of mystery, of suspense. He breathed deeply, the sharp scent of pines, dark, earthy moss, and damp musk from the unseen lake behind the foliage passed in through his half open window. He smiled – it smelled like –

His head snapped to the right and he blinked, recognizing all at once that he was within two blocks of Jack's place. Right instead of left. He could be there in less than one minute. Fingers tightened, muscles locked, dread cramping his belly and his gaze dropped to the dashboard clock, staring. He was hours early. He had time. Time to swing by, find out … tell Jack he was … explain about …

Another confrontation in Jack's living room. Daniel seeking answers, reaching out in friendship, wanting to assure the other man of his support, of his understanding - it all flashed like a television rerun across his memories. His clenched teeth made his jaw ache at the sick familiarity. Jack's act before Maybourne's silent witnesses had been perfect, aimed directly at Daniel's weakness, his utter inability to keep those closest to him, to hold on tight enough to family, to friendship. To work hard enough at it, bend himself to be what others needed him to be so that they'd … stay.

That trace of truth beneath the lies had brought them here, with Daniel hesitant and angry, watching his family unravel, and Jack seeking a closer friendship from someone else, someone who, within the constrained military culture, had no choice but to follow his lead. Daniel fumed at himself, shoving the bitterness, the one-sided judgment away. It didn't matter, he reminded himself. This was Jack's choice, Sam's choice. If he had any hope for a slim connection, for a trace of the friendship that had grounded Daniel during some of the worst times of his life, he had to stop. Get over it. Like the child of divorce, maybe, make his place within whatever fragments of SG-1 were left to him.

Daniel watched the second hand move, slowly, sluggishly, and his mind turned back to memories of Netu, of Apophis and Jacob and Sam's surging and dwindling memories from Jolinar. Of the steady weight of Jack's arm across his shoulders. Jack had known – somehow – that Apophis would leave Daniel until last, that the Goa'uld would savor the torture of his teammates, imagining Daniel's growing dread. He'd sat by Daniel, sharing strength and unspoken support, even after he'd been so wounded himself, haunted by memories of his son. They'd watched Sam and Martouf across the width of their cell, watched them care for Jacob, watched the Tok'ra tease memories from their teammate, almost willing her to become his long-lost love.

Daniel had waited, able to keep calm and focused because of Jack's constant presence, because of his friend's needs. The pathetic, empty threats he'd voiced during his last meeting with a dying Apophis in the SGC infirmary had echoed around him, drenching him in humiliation and failure. How the Goa'uld must have laughed, looking into Daniel's eyes and seeing only weakness there, anticipating bringing the naively proud human to his knees, writhing in pain and grief from hijacked memories and the Blood of Sokar.

And then – unexpectedly – when Apophis sent for him, when the monster held him helpless before him and Daniel tried to brace himself to face his wife, to face her blame and pain and loss again - it had been Jack. No visions of Sha're, naked and helpless in Apophis' bed, no promises of her forgiveness or understanding that tore open barely healed scabs and scars, no lingering scent of desert herbs or nights beneath the moons of Abydos. No, even in his hallucinations, Jack had been there. Teasing and taunting, promising help and support.

Even then, deep inside, Daniel had known that it was his friendship with a stubborn Air Force colonel that sat at the very foundation of his being. And, if he was honest, he'd known it was not meant to last – no more than Sam's mother's life, or Jack's son's bright smile. Apophis' visions spoke of death; of the death of family, of hope, and Jack O'Neill had starred in Daniel's.

Later, on Vorash, he'd sat and watched. Stomach churning, body aching from the blows, thoughts still locked in a hazy, unreal stupor, he'd watched Jack watch Sam. He'd felt the beginnings then – before Jack was lost to them for over a hundred days, before a badly plotted military sting, before his appendix burst and SG-1 left him behind to find they could easily accomplish the impossible without him.

Daniel squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe he'd left that 'expected life' far behind him, but that didn't mean Jack had. While Daniel had embraced a new family dynamic, fallen into the trap of connection and lost himself and his fierce independence in the role of cherished little brother and friend, it hadn't been enough for Jack. Daniel had outstayed his welcome. So now it was time for Daniel to leave them behind for a time, head out to Vorash and forge new connections. Wasn't that what growing up was supposed to be about? Time he learned - supposedly brilliant mind aside – what teenagers the world over knew instinctually. Moving out – moving on. Cut the ties.

Jack had probably been waiting for it. Wondering if Daniel would ever clue in.

He breathed deeply of the forest air, imagined the smoke from Jack's grill, the clink of glass, a man and woman's voices ebbing and flowing, just like in all those other homes he'd passed. If they could move on, so could he. Daniel looked to the right along the shadowed road. It would only take that one minute for him to tell Jack he was still his friend, still trying, and that he'd hold on as long as Jack let him, whatever he decided. That Daniel would do anything – everything – to protect him. The minute hand ticked over from thirty-four to thirty-five and Daniel closed his eyes, feeling the moment pass.

He turned left and headed for the mountain. For another wormhole ride into the unknown, leaving the foundation of Jack's friendship crumbling in its wake.

Two blocks away, Jack O'Neill looked up from his solitary game of chess, eyes narrowing, muscles tensed. He listened for the sounds of familiar tires in his driveway, for hesitant footsteps. A few moments later he raised the half-empty bottle to his mouth and took a long pull.

oOo

"Daniel Jackson."

Daniel jerked his head from his hands, blinking through the dim shadows cast by his desk lamp to try to focus on the large dark figure back-lit by the bright hallway.

"Teal'c." He laid one hand protectively on the stack of papers still warm from his printer. "I was just coming to say good-bye."

The Jaffa stepped forward. Still in shadow, his head turned to one side as if whatever he'd found on Daniel's wall was far more interesting than his teammate's face, he held both hands behind his stiff back and gave off wave after wave of unease. Daniel squinted through the darkness, watching the light catch the line of a firmly clenched jaw, the bunching muscles at the edge of his sleeve, the curve of flared nostrils. He leaned back in his chair, struggling to hold onto the sense of calm, the sense of 'mission accomplished' he'd forced ever since he'd stopped typing. Elbows on the arms of his chair, he linked his fingers at his belt and pressed his lips together tightly.

"You are going to the Tok'ra."

The name of their allies a bitter curse, still Teal'c wouldn't look at him. Not a question, then. No, not a question - an accusation.

"I'm sorry, Teal'c, but, yes. I am."

He heard the hard swallow as Teal'c stifled an impatient retort. Daniel knew his friend – his unlikely friend – very well. Since Shaunauc, since Tanith's deceit and the Tok'ra's strategy to use him for disinformation instead of allowing Teal'c his right of vengeance, the Jaffa had lumped them all among his enemies. Teal'c had lived among humans for years, lived away from the rigid Jaffa culture, from the supposed gods who had built that culture into a twisted feudal knighthood very, very deliberately in order to control their armies' strength and numbers. Even so, Teal'c had lived many more years – important, maturing years – within a society that taught him what it meant to be a man. And now –

"You would abandon your friends – your brothers – when they have need of you."

Each word was a stab in the heart. Daniel sat for a moment, feeling the pain, listening to the deep hurt at the center of Teal'c's own soul. He thought he'd swallow it, brush it away. Cold logic told him he'd done all he could do – more than anyone should be asked to do. That he was following the orders of a president, seeing the big picture, working towards the future of the SGC. But the spark of indignation he hadn't quite extinguished, that had lain in wait within his heart under a smothering coating of good intentions and fear had bloomed, fanned into an explosion of anger and blame and despair and Daniel found himself on his feet, hands braced on his desk, chin raised defiantly.

"'Abandoned?' Who's been abandoned, here, Teal'c?" The words forced themselves from his throat laying trails of the acid that had pooled in his belly. "How about abandoned morals and oaths? Abandoned leadership? Do you even know what I've spent the last hour doing? How I've –" Daniel bit off the rest and chewed it between his teeth. No. Not that. He wouldn't beg for understanding, wouldn't display his desperate actions for Teal'c to judge. "Damn it," he snapped, pushing back from his desk, snatching off his glasses with one hand and rubbing at his dry, aching eyes with the other. "Damn it."

He hid within the darkness of his closed eyes for a moment, let the silence build his armor back around him, piece by piece. But, after this … shattering … he knew it was a fragile construct, spot welded at the weakest points. It wouldn't soon be strong, not strong enough to hold back that sweeping wave of grief that was poised to drown him. Words, looks, memories – anything his teammate could say, any hand reached out in friendship or attack could smash it to ruin. Anything Daniel didn't control.

Daniel gathered his thoughts, his vaunted stubbornness, and opened his eyes. "I'm sorry, Teal'c. The president has asked me to go to Vorash and I'm going to go." He was relieved to hear the evenness of his tone, to feel the ease of his muscles, the slight smile on his lips as he faced the Jaffa's blazing stare. "I think it'll be better that way." He took a deep breath. "And, with you on their side, Jack and Sam couldn't have a better advocate." That was easy – that was the truth.

Before Teal'c could respond, Daniel snatched up his papers and strode towards the door. "I'm sorry, but General Hammond has asked for a meeting before I go."

A strong hand on his shoulder stopped him. He stood, motionless, eyes wide, like a small animal in a trap, afraid to turn to meet the dark, accusing eyes not even a foot away.

"Daniel Jackson. I understand duty," the word was layered with decades of painful memories. "I understand betrayal."

What? Daniel jerked out of his teammate's grasp and spun, shocked, to stare at him. Betrayal? Teal'c thought Daniel was betraying him?

Hands again restrained behind his back as if the Jaffa warrior didn't dare let them escape his control, Teal'c's scowl was full of meaning, of context Daniel couldn't define, didn't want to translate into any further condemnation. "Do not apologize to me, Daniel Jackson."

Uh. All the air seemed to whoosh from Daniel's lungs at his teammate's direct verbal hit. _Too late for apologies, Teal'c?_ Too late for a lot of things. Not trusting his voice, Daniel nodded.

"You will return to the SGC."

Yes. Sometime. Daniel would have to. Just … not right now. "I will." He straightened his shoulders. He'd face the music, be a witness to the consequences of words and actions. He'd face Teal'c's need for righteous vengeance, watch Jack and Sam, testify to their unassailable character. "I promise."

Teal'c's chin lifted, his eyes searching the distance as if for answers. "See that you do."

Daniel didn't know how long he stood, rooted, after his teammate left him. Head bowed, he blinked rapidly until the words he'd typed onto the clean white sheets leaped up to remind him of his self-imposed mission. At least he had this – at least he could do this, prove, in a small way, that he still stood with his team – with the splinters of SG-1. Prove to Teal'c that he was not abandoning them. Prove to Jack.

Right before he turned his back and ran away.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The last mouthful of cold coffee hit Hammond's empty stomach like a prizefighter's fist. He set the cup down gently, carefully. He didn't hurl it at the star map in a fit of pique or slam the drawers of his desk in desperate search for one of the half-eaten tubes of antacids rolling around in there. Grinding the chalky pills into powder between his teeth, he checked the clock – again – then slowly flipped the thick file folder on his desk closed and set it aside.

A copy of the communique he'd received a few hours ago now sat front and center, just a few lines printed there in black and white - unexpected, but wholly welcome. Tense moments before Daniel Jackson was due back at the base for what Hammond had assumed would be one of the most awkward conversations of his command, the wormhole had blossomed and a coded message had been received.

Jacob Carter was on his way.

A day late and more than a few dollars short, but, at this point, George would take it. He'd hoped his old friend would have made an appearance during the treaty negotiations, or when the possibility of Goa'uld brainwashing was first grudgingly acknowledged by Anise and Martouf. Or during the damned peculiar situation with the alien armbands that had turned three-fourths of his premiere team into sneering, super-powered adolescents.

Now – when it was looking to be too late to drag SG-1 back from the brink of disaster, Jacob and Selmac were finally coming.

He slid back in his chair and allowed himself to slouch for a moment, to rest his aching head against its high back and close his eyes behind the firmly closed door of his office. The last 24 hours had been grueling, draining him of every ounce of energy and thinning the trailing edge of optimism he'd barely hung onto from the beginning of this command. Expecting an easy exit to retirement in unused hallways around a dusty, shrouded artifact, Hammond had been faced with alien invasions, ray guns, and parading villains, and a sheer loss of life that dragged at his soul. He grunted and shook his head – who knew that a long-haired, grimy, fast-talking archaeologist Hammond had convinced himself to loathe, sight unseen, would stir the kind of hope and anticipation that flooded this underground base from the beginning, and inspired weary soldiers to courage and good men to be better.

Of course, even under the current … circumstances, even with the prospect of his adopted family breaking apart around him, even after months of exhausting arguments and isolation, it was Daniel Jackson who had, for a moment, fanned Hammond's flickering hope to burning. From his tentative knock at Hammond's door, still dressed in civilian clothes, it had been clear that Daniel Jackson had an agenda of his own.

"General? Is this a bad time?"

Hammond had raised his eyes to the door, taking in Daniel's face, the shuttered concern in his eyes, and the slight hesitancy of his motions. He'd tried not to read into it, tried not to remember a more forceful young scientist, a passionate scholar who could barely be coerced to take proper precautions before hurrying headlong towards alien cultures or untried ruins. A young man who had no doubt of his standing within the SGC, or on its premiere team. Or tucked in close beside the shoulder of his best friend. He hadn't seen that Daniel Jackson in far too long.

"Of course, please come in Doctor Jackson."

Hammond had spent the previous few hours dotting all the I's and crossing every T – and then doing it again – to make doubly sure that no administrative review board could find a way to call his investigation into O'Neill and Carter's possible fraternization a white wash. Frasier had still been reviewing reports, making a detailed analysis of possible medical explanations for disciplinary oversight - enzyme imbalances, nanotechnology, hell, even battle fatigue. And every time he'd pulled back to reconsider, to wonder if his second in command had actually crossed that line, the general's anger had also redoubled.

Focusing on the young man sitting opposite him, Hammond had folded his hands on top of the thick file folder, his simmering anger smothered by concern. No amount of preparation would have readied him for that discussion.

"Doctor Jackson, there is no easy way to say this." The civilian had taken a long, slow breath and set his jaw, obviously steeling himself. "During the Zatarc testing, something was revealed that places me – places all of us – in a very uncomfortable position."

Daniel had nodded, pale, resolute. "I understand."

The young man –

Hammond interrupted the flow of his memories with an abrupt jerk. If it was time to take stock, to go back over the actions and attitudes of SG-1, to determine the motivations for the changes that were plain as day to anyone with eyes to see them, perhaps he shouldn't start with O'Neill and Carter. Perhaps he should start with himself. With how he saw these men and women, with his own lazy assumptions and blinkered, 'business as usual' attitude that had him brushing off the arguments, the heated words and disdainful glances, and charging ahead, afraid to slow down so that he would be forced to see the destruction left in the path of Earth's priorities. It was time to put his own feelings of betrayal and anger aside and straighten his shoulders under the weight of his responsibility – _his command, his choices, his responsibility_.

It was time to start right there, with his own sloppy thinking. With this 'young man,' as he habitually thought of Daniel Jackson. This 'young man' who was the veteran of countless off-world missions, fire-fights, and rescue operations. Who had brokered peace where no one else could find a common ground, who had forced Hammond – and others – to face the consequences of their actions time after time, and who had insisted on human rights for those they found through the Stargate – a Stargate that he had opened, only to find it took from him nearly everything he held dear. Doctor Daniel Jackson may be young, but he was no child, no barely grown recruit or inexperienced teenager. Smarter than just about everyone, braver than the Spec Ops best, and more stubborn than a bulldog with a t-bone, it was past time for Hammond to start treating him as such.

Daniel had all but demanded it.

Earlier, in his office, he'd looked up and realized that while Daniel's shoulders and back would never be quite as straight as an airman at attention, they were made of steel, and those blue eyes held cold iron. About to take a step onto an alien world – alone – in order to understand a culture made up of beings who were twins to the enemy who had stolen Daniel's wife and brother, enslaved the one and all but murdered the other, Daniel Jackson was ready for battle. On behalf of his team, the very people who, closest to him, had the ability to hurt him more than any Goa'uld ever had.

As strained as it had been over the years of his life, there had to be a rock-bottom to Daniel's well of absolution. Daniel had forgiven Teal'c. He'd volunteered to serve Goa'uld System Lords here on Earth. He'd argued for leniency for a woman who had purposefully addicted him to the sarcophagus. Scientist, teammate, scholar, explorer – first and foremost, what Daniel Jackson was, at his very heart, was a man who reached beyond his own needs and saw the big picture, the long term goal. No matter the cost.

George wondered if, perhaps, they'd found a price Daniel was unwilling to pay.

Daniel had made a preemptive strike before Hammond could begin to explain, to set out the situation between O'Neill and Carter and the investigation he was forced to carry out. Maybe it was the influence of years of working with a tactician like Jack O'Neill, or a vetted warrior like Teal'c, but Hammond figured the scholar's surgical strike at the heart of the matter might have been guided by educated rhetoric and his dedicated anthropological study of military society.

"General," Daniel had adjusted his glasses, his voice a little loud, actions a bit broader than usual, as if playing directly to the unseen audience of the SGC's friends and enemies who would be scrutinizing every second of this security footage. "I wanted to say that, after hearing what Anise told you in the infirmary, I anticipated this discussion. And I have very carefully considered how the situation must have been perceived by the Tok'ra."

Hammond had sat back in his chair, letting out a long-held breath that began to uncramp his tight chest. "Which situation are you referring to, Doctor Jackson?"

Daniel's eyes had blazed defiantly. "The deep friendship and camaraderie of SG-1, General. And Jack's complete devotion to the safety of his team."

The general had simply let him talk, let the carefully considered and artfully arranged words wash over him. Listened to the logical diplomat, the even tone of Daniel's argument soothing as he listed examples of the colonel's selfless decisions, Carter's brilliance, and the incidents that had proven, again and again, that both officers epitomized the qualities that were most needed at the SGC: honor, discipline, courage, imagination, and determination.

He spoke of O'Neill's fierce defense of Teal'c, of his willingness to hear Daniel's tale of alternate realities to take on a suicide mission to destroy Apophis' invading ships, of his connection with the Asgard, and the personal wounds he'd suffered to deal with the Retu and the crystal entity who masqueraded as his dead son. He described Carter's unheard of brilliance, of her suffering at the hands of the Tok'ra, Jolinar, and her determination to use the remnants of that joining for the good of the SGC. Of her bravery and discipline, even when torn in two directions by her orders and her conscience.

He gave ancient examples of military men who had become closer than brothers, of families who fought together in both the American War of Independence and Civil War, and explained how the current thinking that a leader must maintain a sense of detachment from his teammates simply could not stand against the weight of history. Of course O'Neill cared for his team, he stated – more so than in any standard military command. They were more than teammates, they were family, and, without that close tie of family, without the immediate trust and understanding that they'd built around them over the past four years, SG-1 would not have been able to stand. Of course the colonel had been devastated at the thought of leaving Sam behind to torture and death. Of course Sam had been desperate to lessen her CO's guilt for making the proper tactical decision. Eloquent words, carefully stitched together examples, all drawing any listener to one possible conclusion: without men and women like O'Neill and Carter, the SGC – and Earth – could not possibly stand.

Every question George could have possibly asked was answered, every contingency covered, every selfish motivation brushed away or turned aside to a positive outcome. Daniel had held out a sheaf of clean white pages, apologizing for their rough organization and rougher prose, explaining that his 'report' had been hastily swept together before he left for his extended TAD to the Tok'ra world. In his absence, he wanted no mistaken assumptions made about his thoughts and opinions.

Pride had raced a heated path through the general's veins. One hand rubbing at his chin to smother a smile, he'd shaken his head and reached out to take the thesis from the scholar's hands. It was one moment of hesitation, a sudden shadow behind guarded blue eyes, and a barely audible sigh as Daniel finally released his report into Hammond's hands that had turned warm pride into a cold sliver of dread. Even now, hours later, he couldn't dispel it. Remembering Daniel's determined features, his unhurried words, and his self-mocking explanations for distance or disdain, Hammond did not have to struggle to imagine the deep, gaping wounds left by every syllable on those pages in the scholar's own psyche. Hiding behind the diplomat's mask that they'd forced on the linguist time and time again, Daniel had spun the truth into a comforting fiction and sold it at the expense of his own conscience.

And it lay there, now, under Hammond's hands. Daniel had placed it there, trusting the Air Force general not to tear apart the tissue-thin gossamer he'd built it out of. Hammond wondered, not for the first time, if this 'young man's' tale could grow to become the truth if only Daniel had enough conviction.

"Unscheduled off-world activation!"

Hammond stirred, staring at the folder on his desk. He reminded himself of that last opening of Earth's Stargate, of Daniel's quiet resolution standing alone at the base of the ramp dressed in military clothes, armed with weapons of heart and mind and hand, turning to put his back to this struggle, the SGC, and his team, and taking a solitary step towards Vorash, towards uncertainty and duty. George had shaken his hand, watched as Daniel had tried to keep his gaze from the empty spaces surrounding him, and wished him God's speed. He hoped the journey brought the not-so-young man some semblance of peace.

A few steps and Hammond was, again, staring down at the Stargate, its chevrons flashing sullenly to life, steam rising from its connections as if from an angry bull. The SFs stood at the ready, eyes bright, weapons aimed into the unknown. The master sergeant sat squarely at the keyboard, iris controls at his fingertips. The weight of the mountain above him – and the expectations of his men, his country, and his world – had never pressed down so heavily on George Hammond's old shoulders.

The general felt the uneasiness of the base around him like a living thing. The Stargate crouching hunched and wary in its concrete bunker, the familiar sights of preparation, trained airmen, and efficient action leaving him feeling ill-equipped, unarmed before a threat he'd never seen coming. Without SG-1 piling into the Control Room, without Jack O'Neill's stalwart, irreverent presence, Sam Carter's brilliance, Teal'c's unwavering strength, and Daniel Jackson's eagerness and insight, George Hammond felt completely alone.

Behind the iris, a flash of light and the subdued echo of the smothered wormhole drew every eye and every ounce of attention.

"Is there a signal, Sergeant?" He straightened, the question simply his way of piercing the crowded silence. Harriman would be checking and double checking without any unnecessary commands.

"No, sir – I –" the 'gate tech moved abruptly, hands on his keyboard. "Sorry, sir. It's Jacob Carter's signal."

Hammond nodded, his thoughts spinning. Movement below broke the spell and he watched the sturdy figure of the only member of SG-1 currently on base enter the 'gate room, head high, eyes straight ahead, empty hands at his sides.

Teal'c.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

This was not his home.

Cold stone walls hidden from the sun of any world, long hours of solitude, the company of soldiers, warriors, with only the shared battle to unite them – these things Teal'c understood; these he knew. They were remnants from a life of slavery to evil filled with distrust and pain, and an anger and disgust Teal'c had barely masked by his habitual scowl.

But this anger, this towering, futile rage that had filled him for long days had not been his constant companion since he had found his place among the humans of Earth, since he turned a staff weapon on his fellow Jaffa, those who would have gladly killed him for a chance of promotion, who had resisted his every attempt to speak truth to them of the Goa'uld. Since Teal'c had chosen O'Neill and Major Carter and Daniel Jackson. Among these he had found reasons to leave anger – for a time – to put off his intended slaughter of his enemies in order to strike deeper and more costly blows for his people's freedom.

They had freed his son. Had allowed him to take Ryac and Dreyauc to another world, a world safe from the Goa'uld, and had embraced the struggle of the Jaffa as if it was simply an extension of Teal'c's small family. They had fought for him with strength and weaponry that he well understood, and with words and philosophies that he did not. Embraced him as friend and ally, as brother; sought out his knowledge and forgave him his decades of violence.

Forgave him for the acts of a First Prime: the enslavement of millions of humans, the murder of Hanno's father, the taking of Daniel Jackson's wife. Forgave him for acts of violent necessity carried out by his hands against those close to their hearts, for O'Neill's friend Kowalsky, Sha're's final death, and the many times he had failed to protect, failed to understand. And these humans, these people who had been strangers to him, had taught him, by gestures of unexpected affection and respect, that their forgiveness did not make them weak, but strong.

Teal'c bowed his head, legs cramped, hands bunched in fists against his thighs, the scent of sandalwood and smoke nearly choking him. There was no peace in kel-no-reem this day. No serenity of body or mind, no healing of wounds or gaining of wisdom. Meditation reminded him of his symbiote's true nature – of its hate and instinctual hunger for dominion. Of its fledgling desire for torture, to taste of the pain of others, to rule. There was no peace for a Jaffa stripped of weapons, stripped of family, of lover, for one who had become a stranger even to himself.

It was Shan'auc who had done this, who had pierced the complacence he had mistaken for contentment and touched the part of him that still seethed for freedom. She who had been his first love so long ago, who had held hands with a proud, young Jaffa warrior, knowing they were destined for journeys in opposite directions on the paths laid out by their masters. Wiser than he, she had not struggled openly against the goad of the Goa'uld, had never voiced her secret longings for the freedom to live – and to love – by choice and not by decree. He had blamed her for that, for pursuing power, safety, and destiny over him.

A foolish young warrior's blindness.

Her dream of mastering the Goa'uld within her had been foolishness, and he had known it so from the beginning. Lulled into distraction by her determination, by the memory of warmth and softness in her arms, by the Tau'ri's ignorance, and by his own longing for something of his own world, he had failed to protect her. He had become soft, dwelling on a past he could not recapture, seeking solace for the growing emptiness of a solitary life among an alien people. How had the teaching of his Master's voice become a whisper within his soul? Ignored? Discarded? Master Bra'tac had lived a dozen lifetimes more than Teal'c's – and Teal'c had lived as many more than the humans among whom he claimed a place. He was no child to be swayed by hopeless longings, by physical urges. He had indeed forgotten himself, and thereby, his responsibilities: Teal'c had lost his fire.

Shan'auc's foolishness could not begin to match his own.

Teal'c would never forget the shaping of his life, the swift cut of the knife, the sickening smell of his own charred flesh, the squirming monster thrust within him. His memory was alive with the dying eyes of those killed by his own hand or by others' at his word. It swam with faces out of his past, brothers, sisters, lovers, comrades, those who had pledged loyalty at his side, sweated and bled and fought until death. Teal'c's oath, his answering pledge, had been to fight and bleed and sweat even more. To protect. To bring victory. To _lead_.

Goa'uld priestess or beautiful lover, Shan'auc should not have been able to command him. Should not have so easily convinced Teal'c, ruled his own veteran conscience by the power of her fierce words or her gentle touch. He had been willing to leave his chosen family, his lifetime of conviction, in order to follow her. To lay down within her arms. To revel in passion. To lose himself within her dreams. Leaving her among the Tok'ra, unprotected, he had turned his mind from his obligation and she had died in agony.

Once broken, the sharp edges of his pledge now cut him, severed him from his peace, bled him of wisdom and affection for those still within his charge. The fire of his sworn oath, his life purpose, unaimed, undirected, now consumed him with rage. He must reach back for the warrior he was, find the steady burn of his devotion, listen to the echoing voice of Master Bra'tac and heed his commands. He must find balance, find his true self in order to serve those around him with strong arms and steady mind. Those who were now his charge must be warned, must be made to see – and he who had marched into danger must be brought back. Daniel Jackson had left Teal'c's side to stand among the Tok'ra. Teal'c would not lose another – _he would not_.

He had believed in O'Neill, in the warrior's same pledge, had come to see the human as a Master in his own right. The short-lived human carried his own load of loss and grief, shared the inner fire to protect and defend beyond his own strength, sacrificing blood and bone and life for his comrades. So that he may lead. Teeth grinding in his jaw, Teal'c felt the knowledge rub at raw scars: O'Neill had also lost his fire.

When it happened, Teal'c did not understand, but, through the short months of a Tau'ri year, slowly and with great subtlety, O'Neill had become less than himself. Words of disdain had sought to tear at the bonds so carefully hammered together in the past, thoughtless acts had been aimed to draw blood not from enemies but from those under his care. He had turned from the hard life of the commander, sacrifice of self, shoulders strengthened to carry the weight of word and deed and responsibility, eyes strained to see the needs of those around him, to one who would pursue a dream, a fragment of warmth, and had turned inward in selfishness.

Teal'c had not understood until he had seen it within himself.

As Teal'c had been so quick to pause with Shan'auc, to be swayed by her fantasy, to betray those who had sheltered and befriended him, O'Neill had begun to do the same. At the touch of a hand Teal'c had ceased to strive, at the press of lips he had given up his tireless work, at the glow within her eyes he had let oath and duty go. O'Neill had seen the light of welcome within blue eyes, had allowed a nearness he should have put aside, had drawn the wrong kind of selfish strength from hero-worship and passionate regard. And it had changed him, had changed them all.

O'Neill had been a leader – one of great strength and cunning, one who would seek out all resources and contributions at the cost of his own pride in order to defeat the enemy. To fulfill his purpose and pursue safety for his world. To shelter and sustain those closest to his heart. His battle was not one of vengeance, but of defense, of rescue for those in subjection. But, O'Neill, too, had turned aside from his path and sought … a fantasy. Lost himself in thoughts turned inward, chasing selfish dreams. He had denied his oath and now would face the consequences: the death of that which he most loved. SG-1.

Beyond that – O'Neill's choice would lose Daniel Jackson. From his friendship. From SG-1. From his young brother's very humanity.

Teal'c closed down his breathing, silenced his churning thoughts, and sought again the quiet of kel-no-reem. 'Seek not life, nor breath, nor the beating heart. Listen not for voices of friends or the stealth of enemies. Silence enfolds. Darkness guards. Self-knowledge strengthens. Peace renews.' The words of Teal'c's first mentor, his father, spread through his mind, soothed his muscles, began the lengthy journey to carry his worries beyond himself. Seeking for answers would bring only a renewed helplessness, a resurgence of rage. He had failed to see, failed to act, to bend O'Neill's desires back towards his pledge when it still lay unbroken and whole around them. He had failed to insist on his place as long-vetted warrior, mentor to these young ones, failed to lead them through this time of uneasiness and restlessness that caught at those exhausted by the battle. And, now, he had failed to speak truth to Daniel Jackson – truth that the wounded scholar could hear through the hurt and loss that held him fast within his own silent prison. Truth stifled by Teal'c's own anger, by his self-blame. By his desperate need to act; to finally _lead_.

Standing within the office of his young brother, of the Tau'ri's foremost warrior of ideas and words, he had found himself mute. It was time for Master Teal'c of Chulak to remember who he was. And then to remind them all.

oOo

Hammond read the changes in the Jaffa's body language and closed his mouth over the unspoken order to stand down. The fury that had boiled beneath Teal'c's muscles, the barely controlled rage that had punctuated every word, every movement since Shan'auc's death, had drained away, leaving the regal warrior standing quietly near the end of the ramp – a calm, expectant member of his command that Hammond hadn't seen in far too long. Teal'c had been absent when Daniel left, deliberately so, Hammond had decided, the message of his disapproval loud and clear. But now … Hammond wondered. Even after four years the Jaffa warrior was still largely a mystery.

The general felt himself stand easier, the weight dragging him down lightening. SG-1 might be broken, but this scene looked a whole lot like hope to him. He nodded to the airman to his right. "Open it up."

Hammond made it to the base of the ramp just as Jacob was greeting Teal'c with a careful nod.

"Teal'c."

The Jaffa, hands loosely gripped behind his back, inclined his head. Hammond watched as Jacob's eyes narrowed, a flash of confusion furrowing his brow before his chin dropped to his chest and another, deeper, voice rang out.

"I grieve for your loss, Teal'c. And I grieve for the breaking of trust between us."

George kept his eyes open and his mouth shut, standing quietly in the background to allow the ancient Tok'ra – and one of his own best friends – deal with Teal'c as he clearly was determined to. Maybe, with these two men on his side, these veterans of countless battles against enemies Hammond couldn't imagine, their distances resolved and differences set aside – just maybe they could begin healing SG-1 and the heart of this base. He'd happily take a backseat to watch that happen.

"Had I been on Vorash when Shan'auc arrived – had Per'sus received other counsel," Selmac shook his head, "her death would not now stand between us."

A half-step ahead of George, Teal'c seemed to vibrate with an echo of repressed anger. "Her blood cries out for vengeance, Selmac of the Tok'ra. Vengeance that I have been denied." Strangely, his voice was soft, almost gentle. The Jaffa's arms didn't bulge with tensed muscle as they had while the Tok'ra High Councilor had been on base, as if eager – desperate – for a fight. "I am unable to face my enemy because he has been given sanctuary by those who promised – who _swore_ to keep her safe."

Holding the Jaffa's gaze, Selmac stood unbowed, "I know."

Teal'c lowered his chin and it took a long moment for him to raise it, to meet the eyes of the Tok'ra before him. "There is much to be done. Much has proceeded, both here and on Vorash, with little thought or planning. Many oaths have suffered."

George stood, stunned, and watched Selmac's unaffected mask begin to crack, his eyes darkened by worry, the body instinctually holding itself straighter as if, within him, General Jacob Carter drew himself up to attention. He found himself wondering, again, how deep their connection had grown, how much of Jacob, the sardonic, blunt tactician, the career fighting man, the father, the friend, still remained. Selmac now carried some of Jacob's heavy load of guilt, Hammond could see that, and had shared some measure of peace with the bitter man. Gratitude to the symbiote for saving his friend's life, for easing his pain, was mixed with a healthy dose of disquiet. Jacob Carter was no longer his own man.

Silence grew, but Hammond didn't move, didn't call out to direct these men to the briefing room, to ask after Jacob's mission, to welcome him to the base. This wasn't over, and Hammond needed these two men – two warriors and friends, members of the family – to gather up the broken pieces of his premiere team and help him put them back together. Or, George admitted to himself, help clean up the blood if there was no hope for recovery.

But first these two had a rift of their own to heal.

Finally, Selmac's eyes drifted shut, a shuddering sigh broke through tight lips, and the mask dropped away to reveal a deep well of concern. Opening his eyes, the old general still stood tall. "You're right," he stated. Clearly something of what had just happened within the thick walls of the SGC must have made its way to Jacob's ears across the galaxy. The threat of Goa'uld brainwashing, Martouf's death, the treaty – he hadn't made this trek to Earth just to shake Teal'c's hand and apologize. "And it's time to put a stop to the nonsense and get everybody back on track."

Teal'c's eyebrows twitched and he seemed to lean back, away from Jacob's sudden brusqueness.

"Well?" The blended general stuck both hands on his hips and sighed in exasperation. "Are you gonna argue?"

Impassive, venerable, Teal'c stared into the distance somewhere over Jacob's head. "I am not."

Hammond stifled a relieved sigh and held out both hands in surrender. "Me neither. And can I just say that it's good to have you back." He turned. "Both of you." But he couldn't put off the worry, the dread, for too long and he nodded to the others. "I have a feeling we'd better get started before …"

" … before there is any more damage," Teal'c finished for him.

"Indeed," Jacob intoned.

Nobody laughed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The sky of Vorash was a sooty grey, smudges of darker clouds painted in thick lines over the empty sand that stretched out to shadowy dimness in the distance. It disrupted Daniel's balance as he stepped from the wormhole as if the crowded sky had more substance than the barren, colorless sand. Or, perhaps it was simply a sign of his own imbalance as he sought for his mental and emotional footing.

The three Tok'ra standing before him didn't help – their dun colored clothing and pale emotionless faces barely distinguished them from the low dunes and vague suggestions of foliage. Their clothes were as much a uniform as the Earth military tan and brown that Daniel was wearing – all designed to blend in, to unify, to erase any stamp of individuality or distinctiveness, to trick the eye into sweeping past them as they sank back into the featureless terrain. An enforced sameness that built a community of soldiers, rank and file, another stepping in automatically to take the place of one who fell. A calculated palette designed to whisper, 'There's no one here, you're alone, you're safe,' to all watchers.

Daniel's mind caught at the thread of pattern, the tangled string of logic that led from those realizations to his own situation, wondering, not for the first time, if the drab greens and blues and beiges of military garb had helped leach away his passion, his inventiveness. If he'd fallen so much in line with his fellow soldiers that he'd lost himself, if he'd become more rigid and emotionless than the sworn officers that surrounded him.

He'd wanted to change the military mindset, to broaden thoughts of weapons and tactical advantage to take in the human factor, the mind and will and soul of the people they encountered. How ironic that he'd clung to some of the military regulations harder than his teammates.

Maybe they'd changed him far more than he had changed them. Or, they each changed the other in only the worst ways.

"Daniel. I am very happy to welcome you to Vorash."

Tymon stood in front, his smile the only bright welcome in the entire scene. It drew Daniel from his thoughts, from his contemplation of the sad landscape – both without and within. He found himself smiling in return.

"Thank you, Tymon. I'm very happy to be here." He was. The weight of decisions, his and others' had been dropped off somewhere along his three second journey through space and he found himself standing straighter, the familiar ache of tense muscles and gritted teeth lessening. A chill wind rattled a few grains of sand at his feet, bouncing them along the edge of the stone platform that held the Stargate, but he couldn't tell if it was the cold air of sunset or the last lingering chill as dawn broke through. He laughed at himself – still wondering what time it was on the alien world.

"Please, let us descend into the tunnels," Tymon held out one arm to guide him and Daniel stepped down to walk at his side, "a storm is breaking far out in the hills. I don't want your first steps as honored guest on our world to be through a blinding sandstorm."

Images of Abydos threw themselves – in full color and sound – up on Daniel's inner movie screen. He remembered following a subtle trail away from unfriendly soldiers, finding a mastadge and a grim Air Force colonel who held him close and helped him limp through the storm. Tymon's light touch against his back was both too familiar and too alien, and he stumbled, smiling a quick apology as he opened a slightly greater distance between them. "No, I'd like to avoid that," he agreed quietly.

Tymon dropped his arm to his side and nodded, content, it seemed, with the Daniel's need for space. "When we chose Vorash as one of our forward staging worlds, we welcomed the austere landscape and the unfriendly weather patterns. The planet lacks natural resources, beauty, mineral elements – everything the Goa'uld find important or useful." He sighed, eyes shadowed by a memory. "Unfortunately, these characteristics make it less of a home to those of us who remember lives lived beneath clear skies, warm breezes on our skin, the taste of sweetness in the air."

Pacing beside the Tok'ra, Daniel caught the edge of wistfulness behind his words. "You don't consider Vorash your home?"

Tilting his head, Tymon eyed him beneath raised brows. "Do you consider the tunnels and corridors of the SGC your home, Daniel?"

_Not anymore_, his mind replied. He adjusted his glasses. "'Home' has never really been a concept I was all that fond of." _Liar_, echoed back through his being. Daniel shook off the stab of familiar envy, of the longing of a little boy, the emptiness of a lonely man dressed in borrowed clothes looking at family photographs on a mantle. "I believe 'home' is more an ideal than a reality."

"I shall have to respectfully disagree," Tymon smiled gently, shepherding Daniel to turn to the left, to aim for a low range of hills in the bland distance. "Although my homeworld is long behind me, during the most difficult trials and losses of my long life my thoughts often linger there. And the memories bring me peace – balance. As if, from those first remembrances, those faces and scenes, I find a place to stand so that I might fight on."

Daniel's frown was painfully tight. He dropped his chin, watching the shallow imprint his boots left in the thick sand. Home. Family. He'd never known it meant so much to the Tok'ra. To himself. He'd told himself for years – for almost all his life – that it was unnecessary, unimportant. Now that he'd lost it again …

A hand on his arm stopped his thoughtless forward progress. He turned to look into the concerned gaze of the Tok'ra High Councilor. "I seem to have upset you, Daniel. Is this a subject you would choose not to speak of?"

He held up a hand to forestall any more apologies or explanations. "No, no. Just," Daniel smiled and shook his head, "you've brought up an interesting point. And I would be very interested to hear more about your home, the homes of other Tok'ra, if that's all right." Curiosity swamped the unwanted emotions crawling through Daniel's belly, nudged his intellect forward, away from the dark and hollow places within him. Yes, this felt familiar. The academic could manage just fine, thank you. No need to dwell on the past – hadn't he decided to look only towards the future?

Tymon stepped towards him and the two silent guards closed in on either side. "I look forward to it, my friend," he murmured, eyes gleaming gold as he quickly closed his other hand on Daniel's shoulder when he made to edge away. The hum of the ring transporter nearly drowned out the Tok'ra's final words. "And forgive me if I hope you rediscover your footing, your sense of home, here with us."

oOo

Sam kicked her front door closed behind her, one hand raised to keep the freshly laundered and pressed uniforms from dragging along the floor in their clear plastic coverings, the other fumbling with keys and phone and purse. She shook her head, tossing the offending items onto the counter as she strode towards the bedroom. A purse. An actual purse. With tassels. What was the world coming to?

She laid the stack of garments on her bed and quickly tore the first flimsy bag from bottom to top with one motion. Snatching the skirt hangers from her open closet, she transferred the plain blue skirts from the paper-coated wire to the padded clips, making sure the straight pins the cleaner used hadn't left any visible holes. Flinging the empties to the floor, she grabbed the next item and tore through the plastic to reveal her uniform jacket. She stood for a moment, looking at the plain lapels, the empty expanse of blue where her ribbons would rest, the bare cloth turning a prize, a reminder of honor and respect into just another blazer, a bulky, square shouldered coat that anyone could wear. The burning sensation deep in her chest surged forward, still there, buried and ignored as she'd hurried from chore to chore, busy work claiming all of her attention.

Distant worries had sometimes poked at her, flaming brightly for a moment, trying to draw her focus, but Sam had shunted them aside. She shook her head and turned to her dresser where she'd laid out her colors, a glint of light gleaming from her name tag, her shiny clusters.

_"I, Samantha Carter, having been appointed a Major in the United States Air Force …"_

Sam placed the badges of her rank precisely, concentrating, her name tag sliding back into the almost invisible holes still there in the blue serge. Tiny adjustments, careful attention to detail, didn't ease the frown that dug deeply into the skin of her forehead, the tension that had followed her from beneath General Hammond's stern regard in the briefing room all along her journey home. Standing, twisting her head from side to side, she glanced at the clock on the wall and felt an inner wail begin down deep in her gut. Only 20:00 hours. She forced herself to reach for the first row of ribbons.

_"… that I will support and defend …"_

Eight o'clock. Sam blinked down at her fumbling fingers. What was she supposed to do now? She felt her shoulders begin to hunch, knuckles rubbing quickly at her chest just over the spot where that annoying flame kept burning. She kept her eyes down, her back deliberately turned on her empty house, the dusty, unused things that stared at her from shelves and tables as if she was a stranger here. She refused to acknowledge the questions crowding behind her determined concentration, the twinges of shame at her remembered words, her careless attitude in the face of a general's reprimand. And the images of wounded, disbelieving blue eyes turned towards her, time after time.

_" … against all enemies, foreign and domestic …"_

Turning again to find the next row, Sam caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her bureau. She watched one hand rise to tug at the blonde hair curling against her neck, traced the uneven line of blush smudging one cheek, the heavy eyeliner that seemed to drag her eyes closed, to highlight the bruised shadows beneath them. She found herself hurrying into the small bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and scrubbing at her face, not even waiting for the water to warm. The rough cloth scraped at her skin, makeup running, the burning in her eyes matching the feeling in her chest. Panting, dripping, she braced both hands against the sink, head hanging, and searched for balance. Balance, she smirked to herself. Yep, another couple of deep breaths should do it, right?

She tilted her head and faced the woman in the mirror, chin jerking up in an automatically defiant gesture. Hard earned respect and determination fought behind cool blue eyes with images of pink lip gloss, a tasseled purse, and hair too long for regs. Who was this woman? This woman who had taken an oath, who had worked her whole life towards one thing and now kept looking over her shoulder to chase another? The burning thing inside her chest grew tentacles that drew scorching lines up and down, touching hidden wells of memory and sorrow and desire.

What happened to that rush of victory that had swept through her in the infirmary? Her feelings – _their_ feelings – were finally out in the open, stated out loud, secrecy broken open and hesitation cast aside. No matter what else had happened, shouldn't she be able to reach in and find that sense of joy? That heated blush of passion?

Oh, she was blushing all right. General Hammond's attitude had robbed her of any heady feelings of success, any warm flutterings of anticipation. It had been uncalled for, she nodded to herself. Embarrassing. They had never stood on ceremony around the SGC, the general had never demanded strict adherence to military protocols or the affected distance and detachment that went hand-in-hand with other Air Force commands. Why now? Quoting regs, handing them over to SFs and escorting them from the base – it was unheard of. George Hammond had been one of Sam's father's best friends, and he'd always been a comforting, friendly presence, eager to encourage, his pride in her accomplishments a balm to her psyche. She watched her reflection's shoulders straighten proudly.

_" … that I will bear true faith and allegiance …"_

They'd all been under tremendous stress, she repeated to herself. Mission after mission, facing unknown, unimaginable enemies, searching for answers they didn't even understand the questions for. The presidential visit, the Tok'ra treaty, the deaths of Lieutenant Astor and the others on Vorash – the general had been overburdened and needed another complication like a hole in the head. Sam frowned. She'd never trusted Anise, but she had no idea that the Zatarc testing – and their admissions of a fledgling romantic relationship – would make its way around the base quite so quickly. Like lightning. In _hyperdrive_. Why couldn't it have just stayed in the room, among friends, people who would be happy for them? Her best friend and the colonel's. Janet and Teal'c.

She closed her eyes, trying to erase the image of Janet's barely concealed shock, Teal'c's dark scowl, and George Hammond's face, eyes filled with profound disappointment. Closed-off. A stranger. And the colonel wouldn't even speak to her.

_"… that I take this obligation freely …"_

The slap of the wet cloth against the tile floor sounded like a gunshot and Sam flinched, seeing dark red blood welling from rough holes in a Tok'ra tunic, feeling the ridged handle of the zat in her hand vibrate twice as she answered the plea in Martouf's tortured eyes. He'd loved her. Loved Jolinar, loved the memories of his mate's that lived within her. But he'd never really seen beyond his beloved Rosha's face to find Sam's, had believed her unwanted blending with the Tok'ra symbiote could restore his heart to him.

She opened her eyes. It had never really been about her, about Sam, about her strengths and flaws, her desires, her personality, or even her looks. Wide blue eyes, high cheekbones. She was pretty, desirable, she knew that, but Martouf was always looking past her for someone else. She'd surprised that look on his face more than once when he'd looked up at her voice and, for just a moment, expected someone else. And then recognized her. The weight of his disappointment had been constant and unrelenting and Sam had resented him for it. She'd seen that same disappointment too many times already in her life. Living up to someone else's expectations was never on Samantha Carter's agenda.

_" … freely …"_

The colonel – Jack – never looked at her that way. Sometimes with a careless impatience at her scientific explanations, yes, or with gentle reprimand as she struggled for dominance with a certain stubborn archaeologist, or, even more frequently, with an affected air of confusion as if every word that came out of her mouth flew directly over his head. But she'd also seen the pride there, the welcome, the meeting of military minds. And, more and more frequently, the open admiration, that sexy twinkle of flirtation. Smiling, she remembered his invitation to join him at his cabin, and the week of downtime while the Earth's second Stargate was being installed after Thor's ship crashed into the ocean.

No, disappointment hadn't been on his mind.

_" …. freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion …"_

She reeled away from the mirror to stand staring at the few ribbons left scattered on her bureau, each filled with meaning, with memories of sacrifice and duty. Sacrifice and duty. One hand clutched tightly at the fabric of her cotton shirt, Sam tried to shrug off the memory of Martouf's death, of the image of Daniel crumpled at the end of the ramp, of Hammond's fierce, accusing gaze, and to throw herself back to quiet evenings under an alien sun, the brush of an affectionate hand on her arm, a crooked smile. Nothing spoken, nothing overt, just the obvious connection of one man and one woman. No uniforms. No regulations. No ranks.

_"… that I will well and faithfully discharge the office …"_

Back on base, the colonel had taken a few steps back towards friendship, towards camaraderie rather than passion, but the fleeting smiles still showed up from time to time, and Sam had felt his support at briefings, on alien worlds, whenever her conclusions were called into question. His uncompromising backing had felt so good. After a lifetime of striving for acceptance, of fighting tooth and nail to never be ignored or brushed aside, of 'almosts' and 'could have beens' and 'not quites,' here was a strong, powerful man who looked at her and saw someone … real … not his own image of her.

Hands fisted at her sides, nails biting deep, Sam shuddered, teeth clenched. She'd earned her medals. She'd earned her place. Earned the respect and approval. Why shouldn't she take it?

_" …faithfully discharge the office upon which I am about to enter …"_

Her own voice haunted her, pulled down all her hastily constructed arguments and selfish demands. Her promotion ceremony. Jack standing there, tall and strong in his Service Dress uniform, medals proud on his chest, with that irreverent gleam in his eye that said so much about his character, his leadership. Daniel and Teal'c so proud beside her, proud and strong and faithful. Celebrating with her when neither really understood how the promotion straightened her back and filled some inner emptiness with triumph. Her men – her team. Searing tears crouched behind Sam's tightly closed eyes, caught at her throat as she remembered the gathered airmen, watching, sharing the victory, the success. Standing witness to her oath. Protected by her pledge, knowing she would never shirk duty or oath or obligation, never run from the battle because of cowardice or self-protection. Or selfish gain.

Sam dropped her head into her hands. What was she doing? What the hell had she been thinking? That she was a special case? That _they_ were? That the great Jack O'Neill and the brilliant Samantha Carter were too vital, too integral to this program to be expected to follow regulations? That their oaths were held together with nothing more than winks and nudges?

_" … faithfully discharge the office upon which I am about to enter. So help me God."_

Did she want the plain blue blazer? A life filled with tasseled purses and errands and long hours waiting in an empty house for someone to come home? Did she love Jack O'Neill more than she valued her sworn word? More than she loved the Air Force? The scale balanced for a moment, hung there, suspended, in her mind and heart, girlish whims and fantasies huddled together on one side, her uniform, her duty, her aspirations, _her team_ on the other. And then, with heated abandon, with the gravities of a black hole, it wrenched over to one side, breaking chains and scattering skewed pieces of twisted metal in every direction.

_" … So help me God."_

No. God, no. Not even close. Steady hands reached for her medals and turned to pin them carefully in place. Sam turned back to the mirror, held up the uniform before her, and felt herself settle back into her skin. There. That was better. She'd get a haircut in the morning. Polish her shoes. Trim her nails.

And, so help her God, Major Samantha Carter was going to earn back her oath, earn back her soul. And earn back her team.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Alarms clanged dully – wrong tempo, wrong pitch – Jack ran, shouldering through airmen, Tok'ra, side-stepping a squad of Marines. Kowalsky fell into a jog beside him. "It's bad, Colonel."

Jack couldn't speak, words twisting to dust in his mouth.

Blood burst from Kowalsky's throat. "You can't stop it." His bared teeth were stained, eyes glowing.

"I can," Jack shouted, furious, terrified, reaching out to strangle the thing that had torn its way free, neck ruffle flapping, tusks dripping.

In the 'gate room, the shimmer of the event horizon was the only light, tinting the air blue. Teal'c, weighed down with Jaffa armor, stood immobile, staff weapon held stiffly across his chest. "You have waited too long, O'Neill."

"No! I need to go through!"

"Colonel – Jack –"

A thin hand on his shoulder held him back. He turned into Carter's arms. "He doesn't need you," she whispered, blue eyes uncertain.

Jack pushed her away, frowning, guilty when she stumbled and fell into a heap at the base of the ramp, white pajamas crushed and stained. He stepped towards her. "Are you okay?"

Zat fire erupted behind him and he watched it dance along her body, shaking her. A snake slithered from beneath her and skittered under the ramp.

"Jack! We have to catch it!"

"Shut up, Daniel!" Furious, he grabbed at Daniel's sleeve, to draw him back.

"But it's priceless! Irreplaceable!"

"Shut the hell up and obey my orders," he barked, nearly growling, shaking Daniel hard enough to rattle his teeth. "It's a Goa'uld!"

Blue eyes bright behind his glasses, Daniel frowned, trying to push Jack's hands away, to peel off his fingers. "No, Jack, it's a Tok'ra. Can't you tell?"

"No, Daniel! You can't tell!" Jack was frantic, hands clutching tight to Daniel's vest, the sound of marching boots thumping in his ears. "You can't tell!"

"Just look, Jack, see?" Daniel gestured with one hand towards a figure coming into the light around the side of the ramp. Martouf. Smiling. One hand reaching out.

"No! Get back!" Jack shoved Daniel down behind him as Martouf pointed two fingers towards Jack's chest and shot out an energy beam, his eyes glowing gold. The heat passed straight through Jack and he clutched at the thin material of his t-shirt, spinning to make sure Daniel – to find -

The sweet smell of death, a red ocean spreading out on the metal floor. Daniel lay propped against the open door of the mothership, chest wound gaping, skin too pale for human flesh, smoking weapons gripped tightly in both hands. "Did I do it right? Are you proud of me?"

"Daniel, no … no." Jack knelt, chest bursting with wailing despair, one hand rising to rest gently against his friend's cheek. "You lived. You lived, Danny, you saved yourself."

"I saved you, Jack."

The bells rang again, loud, thrusting Jack from the dream world into the chill of his dim bedroom. He panted, heart thudding painfully, sweat and tears salty on his lips, and he clutched consciousness with a tight-fisted grip. God. No more. Please.

The two-toned chime of his doorbell rang again.

"Thank God," he muttered to himself, prying nerveless fingers open to rub his shirt hard against his face. "Never thought I'd send up a prayer for door-to-door salesmen." He lurched to his feet, shaking out each leg to try to fling off the pins and needles feeling, and shuffled down the hall.

"Yeah, yeah, hold your –"

"Jack."

"Jacob?"

"Hey, Jack."

Moving out of the way on autopilot, Jack's nightmare-fogged brain tried to play catch up as he watched the former Air Force general begin to sweep past him into his house, then hesitate a moment in the doorway, to slap a file folder spilling crumpled white pages against Jack's chest. One hand reaching just as automatically to keep the papers from slipping to the floor, Jack frowned and shook his head. He hadn't had that many beers last night, had he? What the hell time was it?

"Jacob?" He blinked, following the older man's determined stride with wary eyes and a painful wince as stiff neck muscles objected.

Jacob came to a halt in at the bottom of the stairs, turning to flash a quick smile in Jack's direction. "Close the door, Jack," he directed before turning the corner into the living room.

Right. The door. Jack glanced down at the door handle clutched in one hand then peered around the open door into the chill morning air, looking for … what? A staff car? An escort? A tel'tak parked in his front yard? How about a walking explanation of why – and how – Carter's dad with an added Tok'ra chaser was gracing his humble abode. He glanced down at his wrinkled sweats and bare feet. Cold bare feet. Not another nightmare, then.

Still clutching the papers over his heart, Jack gently closed the door and strolled down the steps. Nonchalant. Relaxed. Veteran military guy, not some schmuck who spent the past eight hours fighting the worst battles of his career over and over again with even worse results.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you and all, but," eyebrows raised, he gestured with his free hand towards the former general and then dropped his chin to look pointedly at the SGC file he was wearing like a breastplate, "wha'dya bring me? And, why aren't there donuts?"

Jacob shrugged, his smile nasty. "Sorry, Jack, thought you should probably start watching your waistline." He patted his flat stomach. "Believe me when I tell you that, without a … friend like Selmac keeping me in line, as soon as the sedentary life kicks in, the weight packs on. Oh, and that?" He pointed towards the file. "Just a little light reading to see you through the long, boring hours of retirement."

_What_? Jack's brain stuttered, coming completely awake with a nearly audible snap of twanging synapses.

"You know," Jacob continued, "during those frustrating hours while you're stuck at home, waiting for the little woman to get back from her latest jaunt through the wormhole, leading your team – former team, sorry," Jacob's features morphed into a mockery of sympathy that made Jack wince. "You, stuck here making dinner, doing the laundry – careful, Sammy likes stiff, starched collars, Jack – waiting to hear about the latest firefight or rescue mission." The older man sauntered around the room, adjusting the framed picture of Charlie and Sara on the mantle, stroking one finger through the dust on Jack's bookshelves, twitching the blinds straight. Jack's eyes followed him easily, but his thoughts were racing to catch up.

"The house is nice – needs a woman's touch, of course. I'm not sure the picture of your ex-wife is going to go over too well. And I hope you're okay with cooking 'cause," Jacob shuddered very dramatically, "that's one gene Sam's mom did not pass on to her daughter." He spun back to face Jack. "Well, you should know. MREs are almost too much for her some days."

Jack's hand tracked lazily through the air around him. "Okay. This is one nightmare I don't recall having before." No. Nightmares were reserved for uglier things, for the dark places his waking mind refused to go, rehashing his mistakes, reliving his utter failures, his fatal stupidity. He gestured with his chin, face carefully blank, sarcasm pulled tight around him like a jacket. "No glowing eyes, no demands to 'kree,'" no teammates – friends – dying, "or being shoved to my aching knees before pretentious, posing, over-dressed psychotics. Although," he tilted his head, looking the clearly disgusted Tok'ra up and down, still too drained from his restless night to figure out the rules to whatever game the man was playing, "you are acting pretty damn scary in your own right, Jacob."

Ugly laughter twisted Jacob's lips. "Oh, it's a nightmare all right, just one that you and my daughter are determined to make us all live out in the real world. And it's threatening to be chock full of angsty hormone-driven longing," he pressed one hand over his heart, bad attitude easily a match for Jack's, "and characters whose brainlessness makes your teeth bleed." Hands on his hips, he tried out a big feral grin. "I'd take a couple of Goa'uld and a herd of Jaffa armed with pain sticks if you asked me."

"Jacob-"

"Will it be a spring wedding, Jack? I'll need the date as soon as possible so I can make sure I'm available for all the activities – the engagement party, the tux fittings, your bachelor bash, you know."

"Jacob – stop." Jack meant it for a command, for a growling order. It sounded more like a whine. He cleared his throat, willing to beg if the guy would just shut up and let him have ten minutes to pull on his mental armor and sniff out some coffee.

"What?" Mock surprise turned rapidly into bitter accusation. "You telling me you're tanking your career and splitting up SG-1 for anything less than happily ever after? Or do you just want my daughter to tank hers for a roll in the hay with an over the hill flyboy?"

"Hey!" Jack threw the folder on the table and stepped into Carter's space, eyes hard.

Jacob's eyes flashed in a way Jack couldn't possibly equal as he finished closing the scant distance between them, unintimidated. "What, Jack? What? Tell me, explain to me how this freaking mess you two idiots have gotten yourselves into could go any other way?"

Jack's face twisted into a half smile and he shook his head, backing away, hands up in surrender. "That's not… it's not like that between us." Caring. That's what he'd admitted to. That's _all_ he'd admitted to. And, dammit, that's all it ever was, is, or will be.

"Not like what? Not like 'true love?'"

Jack spun, blunt words triggered by too little sleep and too much honesty. "No, Jacob, not love at all."

And, from the smug but nauseated look that appeared on the older man's face, Sam's dad wasn't exactly surprised. "Yeah, that's what I figured. Nice little fantasy you had going there, Jack. Too bad you didn't let anybody else in on the gag, though. Especially my daughter."

Collapsing onto his couch, Jack scrubbed both hands through his hair, totally indifferent to the fact it probably looked like a zatted porcupine. He sighed. "Yeah, well …"

"And here I thought that 'stupid colonel' act was just an act."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Sorry to disappoint," he snapped.

Still seething, Jacob rocked back on his heels. "I wouldn't try the arrogant approach just yet, Colonel." He jabbed one finger down at him. "You've screwed up yourself, Sam, and your team. Nice job for finally admitting it – but fixing it? That's gonna take more than your usual glib apology and 'can't we all be friends' approach."

Jack glared up at him. "What do you want from me, Jacob?"

The former general bent and grabbed the bundle of papers now spilling all over Jack's table. With symbiote-added aim and agility, he flung them straight into Jack's lap with enough power to sting. "I wasn't kidding about bringing you a story. And _that_," Jacob pointed again, "is a much better tale than the tired romance you and Sam were writing. It's pure fiction, of course, but the characters are compelling if a little stereotypical for my taste. The heroic commander: conflicted, hiding inner pain with sarcasm and a smile. His feisty second-in-command: brilliant and beautiful. Their third: the strong silent warrior type, loyal to the core. Three larger-than-life heroes who bear the dreadful burden of saving the world under the direst circumstances imaginable. And, of course, the plucky, clueless, _useless_ kid who the other three are saddled with as some kind of karmic albatross, that they have to keep risking their lives to rescue from his own thoughtlessness."

Fire surged up from a well of rage in Jack's belly. He'd stood, muscles tensed, file crushed to pulp in one fist, before the last word had slipped from the Tok'ra's mouth. "Tell me right now who had the fucking balls to say that about Daniel?"

Jacob stood his ground, eyebrows barely twitching, silently meeting Jack's accusing stare.

Jack swallowed, trying to get rid of the acid filling his mouth, the bile that wanted out, erupting from a stomach curdled with self-reproach as the unwelcome realization slammed into him. He stood motionless as images from his tortured night chased themselves through his mind. Dismissive words. Remarks sharpened to cut through bone. Hardened muscles pushing a little too hard just to see a stumble. Ruthlessly cutting off enthusiasm that made an old soldier feel every day his age, and then turning to share his joke, his victory, with a pair of soft blue eyes. Ego swelling, he'd fed that new, heady connection with broken pieces of a friendship he left shattered behind him. He'd convinced himself Daniel was too young. Too different. Too open, too accepting of differences, of risk, of mindsets so alien to Jack that the very thought of them ate at his control, challenged his long held assumptions. Made him _think_. Made him question _everything_.

Panting, he flung himself away from the Tok'ra's half-lidded observation, reality catching up with those dream images and filling in every last detail with vibrant intensity. Not nightmares or fantasies this time, but the God's honest truth. Jack hadn't just watched it happen, all of it, he'd _made_ it happen. His command. His lead. His attitude warped and twisted all the others' from the top down. His dreams had reminded him, and had, damn it, filled in the blanks about where it all could lead. An angry, vengeful Jaffa, headed out alone to fight his people's battles. An officer torn between her sworn duty and some lingering feelings he'd done nothing to quell, hesitating just that instant too long between command and compassion, that fraction of a second of doubt leading to death and hell and pain. And a lonely, disillusioned archaeologist trying to find a new home – a new family – with no one to haul him back from his own fatal curiosity.

Yeah, Jack knew just where the future could lead his friend because his conscience would not let him forget the past. Daniel stepping between a suicidal Jack O'Neill and Ra's staff blast. Dragged off by a clawed monstrosity. Crushed by a mine cave-in. Left behind, broken and bloody, on Apophis' ship. Daniel had come back again and again, against all reason, all hope, to buy back Jack's soul from damnation. In the beginning, Hammond had called him on it – demanded Jack's explanations for his actions, his decisions, how the leader of SG-1 had consistently and completely failed to protect the program's greatest asset. More than that, a civilian, a man with a desperate personal agenda to rescue his family. As months passed, Hammond had stopped asking. He shouldn't have.

Jack pressed both hands to his eyes, teeth grinding, trying to shut out the truth. _He'd_ written that story, Colonel Jack O'Neill. He'd written it every time he ignored Daniel's insight or belittled his contribution, with every breath of disdain or reckless action that put his civilian expert at risk. God, he'd left Daniel behind time after time, turned his back, expected an archaeologist to cover retreats, to hold positions; he'd left him with an imprisoned, condemned Jaffa on Cartago, with the alien Nem, alone in a padded cell driven crazy by an alien landmine, alone in a storage closet on an alternate Earth to be beaten by Jaffa. Again and again he'd pressed the scholar into duty as a soldier, and then complained – loudly – when he acted like a genius, instead.

He didn't know what words were emblazoned on the pages he watched fall to the floor, that he ground beneath his bare heels as he strode out onto his deck, the sliding glass door thumping hollowly in its track. Both hands braced against the railing, drawing in the taste of the clear, cold air of dawn, sharp pine and earthy musk in the back of his throat, Jack knew whose hand had typed those lies into reality. And why. And there was a combination Air Force general/high level Tok'ra/angry father/disgusted friend right behind him who'd be happy to lay it all out for him if he pretended otherwise. Jack turned to find that Jacob had followed him, eyes dark, arms crossed over a borrowed, ill-fitting shirt, and, clearly, not finished.

Nodding, Jack straightened, his mouth tightening into a thin slash, eyes narrowed but open. He'd closed them long enough, or turned away to stare into some dim, foggy distance filled with sweaty teenage dreams. Jack had been the original rebel without a cause among the Air Force officer corps, reveling in his 'unique' sense of discipline, his flaunting of rules and regs. He was good, and he knew it, but he'd never been so damned overconfident, so cocky that he let the people on his team – his men, his _family_ – get hurt by it. Air Force trained to examine, to assess, to look beneath the smiles, the comforting facades, to see the threat in friendly gazes and the sniper perches in the beautiful green trees - the one thing Jack had not been trained to see clearly was himself.

Jacob was still stiff with anger, all sarcasm and pointed humor left behind. Out here in the daylight Jack could make out the deep lines of worry around the older man's eyes, the flush of heat across his cheekbones. Behind the masks, the Tok'ra's condescension and the decorated general's righteous ire, Jack noticed a lingering fear. Jacob was afraid for Carter's career, for her future, sure. Probably even for Jack's. But this felt deeper, felt a lot like Jack's own sorrow, his own guilt for screwing up the best team – the best friends – he'd ever had in his life. For tearing apart SG-1. He nodded, mirroring Jacob's posture, arms crossed. "I screwed up, Jacob. Sent the wrong messages. But I have no intention of breaking up SG-1. None."

"That's good to hear," Jacob responded evenly. "Sounds like you had that wake-up call long before I got here."

"Maybe." Jack's hands fisted as the blood-soaked nightmare images tried to creep back into his peripheral vision.

The Tok'ra shrugged. "Teal'c wanted to come – to read you the riot act and kick your ass until your head fell out of it, but Hammond wouldn't let him, told him he had to stick with the letter of the law until the investigation was over."

"I'm betting T didn't quite put it that way."

"Not exactly, but that was the gist of it."

Good. They'd dealt with Carter. Now with Teal'c. With Hammond. One left. Jack's heart started slamming against his ribs again and he forced himself to take deep breath.

"Okay. What else is going on?"

Jacob walked forward a few steps and placed one hand on the deck railing, staring out into the misty sunlight that hung over the lake beyond Jack's property. "Since you brought it up, Jack, what makes you think SG-1 isn't already broken?"

Jack shifted back against the corner of the railing, far enough away to watch the play of emotions over the other man's features. "I'll fix it." Damn straight. Take whatever Hammond wanted to hand out for screwing up team discipline, get Carter back in line, make sure Teal'c knew where he stood. And then …

"Huh. Funny, that." The older man turned, his features blank. "Might be hard to do when part of your team is no longer on this world."

Jack's heart? Yeah, slamming didn't even being to cover it. Throwing itself painfully against his chest to try to find a way out, more like it.

"Here I was, headed to Earth to congratulate Danny on the treaty and maybe put a whisper of a warning in his ear, when George tells me he's off for an 'extended visit' with Per'sus. On Vorash. Alone." Jacob tilted his head to one side. "Sounds … cozy, doesn't it?"

No. It didn't sound cozy. It sounded wrong. Dangerous. And … wrong.

"Do me a favor, Jack," Jacob motioned back through the open door. "I'll make some coffee while you read that little story Daniel wrote to try to cover for two of his best friends. And then, after that, you fill in the ending to explain what happens to that clueless guy on Vorash who thinks his team – _his family_ – is a thing of the past." Strolling past Jack into the house, he patted him condescendingly on the shoulder. "And then tell me how you're going to 'fix this.'"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Did you rest well?"

Daniel turned, smiling. Last night – yes, it was dusk when he arrived on Vorash, at least that was one question answered – last night Daniel's exhaustion had nearly dropped him with the transporter rings, his knees buckling as he'd rematerialized in the tunnels, Tymon's steady grip the only thing that kept him from stumbling. The Tok'ra had taken one look at him and insisted on sleep. Daniel barely bothered to put up a token resistance, docilely allowing himself to be led along identical corridors until they reached this room and the High Councilor himself helped him into bed. Embarrassment had dissolved into the deepest sleep in recent memory.

"I did," he admitted, ducking his head in an unspoken apology towards his internal colonel who was telling him off for letting himself sleep so soundly among an alien people. Well, Daniel couldn't exactly set up watches to stand guard over himself, could he? he snapped back, hating how much it sounded like a pouting whine even in his own head.

Ignoring the internal back and forth, he drew his t-shirt on over his bare chest and hastily tucked it into his pants, regretting – again – the Tok'ra's lack of doors. At least the bathroom facilities were tucked into a corner behind a wall made of frosted crystal. Apparently, modesty wasn't the issue; honesty was. A frown dipped Daniel's eyebrows for a moment as he considered the cultural changes the elimination of privacy must have precipitated. Cultural, sexual, relational – the human race seemed intent on hiding, on building walls around one's property – physical as well as emotional – in an attempt to keep it safe, keep it separated. He turned, letting his gaze sweep across the crystal walls, the wide open doorway, and the welcoming face of his host.

His hosts.

Of course, Tok'ra shared everything. Every thought, every emotion, every memory of host and symbiote. A society dedicated to complete transparency. He shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, how they could be so open among themselves and yet draw such a thick curtain between themselves and the SGC, their supposed allies. Perhaps they only trusted those who had been blended – who had no choice but honesty.

Tymon walked forward, searching Daniel's face and posture. The concerned gaze prickled over Daniel's skin, raising goose bumps, and he instinctually stood straighter, forcing his expression to settle into a bland mask of polite inquisitiveness, the same mask he'd seemed to need more and more, not just dealing with alien cultures, but in every exchange with his team, with anyone within the SGC. Perfect honesty certainly wasn't required – or desired – there. And when the truth was forced, compelled, out in the open, it took a new mountain-full of lies to patch up the holes it left. No wonder the Tok'ra didn't trust them.

"I'm sorry if it seems I'm intruding, but while you are more rested, Daniel, I fear physical sleep will not cure all that seems to drag at your spirit." Tymon opened his hands as if trying to draw the truth from Daniel's heart like he would poison from a wound. "If there is one outcome I would wish to see from your time among us, it is that this friendship between us will serve to build strength, build trust. And," his smile widened, "perhaps, bring us both a measure of healing."

Daniel didn't know what to do with the emotions Tymon's simple, heart-felt words provoked in him. It was ridiculous, really, that a tentative connection and a few words about friendship could touch him so deeply. His first reaction was to harden himself, to file the information away, to slot it neatly into the 'pending' file in his mind where he placed sentiments, accusations, and platitudes uttered by people who might be either friend or foe or some mixture of the two. Why, then, did he want so much to brush all that mistrust, all that vague diplomatic tip-toeing aside and actually believe in this?

He shook off Tymon's apology and returned his smile. "I'm grateful for your concern," he stated sincerely, holding the Tok'ra's gaze. "Honestly, it means a great deal to me. And, frankly, it has been a difficult few months. Some time away …" Words failed.

"Jacob insists on quoting Tau'ri truisms to illustrate his points," Tymon offered, filling in the awkward silence. "One of his favorites is, 'A change is as good as a rest.'" He tilted his head. "Yes?"

Daniel chuckled silently. "Yes. I have heard that one before." Change – as in change the subject, he thought to himself. He swept his gaze around the room - a room unlike any Tok'ra quarters he'd ever seen; more comfortable, more welcoming than the cold, austere rooms he'd been in before. More like a home.

The floor was carpeted with a short, blue animal skin, markings in a darker, violet shade peppering its length. The cushions where he'd slept were piled deep behind a half-wall and covered with something that reminded him of the softest wool – angora, perhaps, or its near relative from another world than Earth. It had made for a sinfully soft bed, the spices stuffed into the pillows sending Daniel's dreams to ocean worlds, bright sunlight drifting through fringed branches onto warm sands, waves rolling up empty beaches to welcome hot, tired feet.

This morning he'd noticed little hints and clues of recent occupancy, a few personal items, small spaces suddenly left empty but bearing traces in the thin dust that an object had recently lodged there. The lonely scroll hanging off-center on one wide wall between empty metal hooks. The crumpled sash shoved into the back of one drawer. A thin line of golden candle wax along the edge of a niche, a smudge of soot curling along its curved roof.

"Do you mind if I ask – whose quarters are these?" Watching Tymon's suddenly closed off expression, he hurried to explain. "I mean, I'd like to thank him – or her – for allowing me to use-"

Eyes flashing gold, Per'sus raised his head almost startling Daniel into taking a step backward. It was the obvious shadows of grief in his eyes, in the downward turn of his lips that filled in the blanks for Daniel before the High Councilor spoke.

"These rooms belonged to Lantash – Lantash and Martouf. And, some time ago, Jolinar and Rosha."

A rough ache of acknowledgment beneath Daniel's breastbone bloomed. He'd known. Somehow he'd known. Something had told him that the room had been hastily prepared - not so much abandoned to emptiness or gradually falling to neglect as might happen with a colleague – a friend - lost long ago, but as if the personal items had been lovingly collected, taken away by hands gentled with memories and loss.

Daniel's gaze swept the room again, this time easily filling it with a remembered smile, the tilt of a head, kind eyes, patient explanations where other Tok'ra had been brusque and dismissive. Martouf had been the most human of the Tok'ra he'd ever met. Until now. Glancing back toward his host, Daniel watched the way Per'sus' wounded gaze lingered on a certain corner, how a slight smile flashed quickly into life as he smoothed one hand along the edge of a pillow, how he pulled his shoulders back as he reached a tall, thin stand that held a single piece of pottery as if he was readying himself for a blow. Perhaps the humanity had been there to see all along, if he'd simply taken the time to look.

"I considered Martouf a friend," Daniel began, trying to find his footing on that fragile bridge the two had begun to build towards each other. "Although I did not know him well, I admired him, liked him." He felt his shoulders lift and lower in an apologetic shrug. He had. Sometimes it was as simple as that.

Per'sus was still, staring down at the dull brown vessel, turned half away from Daniel. "Martouf was easy to like – to love. Such a comfortable, easy sharing he and Lantash lived. Completely balanced one with the other as if each had found a missing piece of the whole when they joined."

Daniel bit at his lips, hesitant, and then took a deep breath and plunged in. "I take it that isn't always the way a joining works?"

A small huff of a laugh and a twitch of shoulders gave Daniel the answer. "No. There are many dynamics within a joined existence. Some humans are content – eager – to be led and guided by a strong symbiote. Virage is happy to be led by Aldwin. Freya is more interested in her studies than in power; so long as Anise makes sure to schedule enough time for the lab, she is also content."

Flipping back through his memories, Daniel nodded. One particular meeting leapt to mind. One host who seemed a completely different person, sweet and fawning, when allowed to surface. "And Garshaw?"

"Ah," Per'sus turned, holding up one hand, "that is a particular situation that happens rarely – altogether too rarely." His smile was bitter. "Garshaw was not born of Egeria, did not receive her memories and did not have her personality molded by our Queen's singular code of honor. Garshaw was Goa'uld born and bred; her host, Yosuf, taken by force when a mere girl."

Curious, Daniel moved closer. "So, Goa'uld do turn? They do, sometimes, reject the violence and lust for power and … _become_ Tok'ra?"

Per'sus' head shook slowly back and forth. "Sometimes. But, it is difficult. Nearly impossible. Between the sarcophagus and the press of genetic memory, millennia of conquest and war, of the taste of slavery and the spice of holding others in utter subjugation - it takes a towering will to resist it. An act of supreme resolve on a moment by moment basis." His smile was hard. "You met her. What is your assessment?"

Daniel tried to be fair. "Determined. Strong." At Per'sus' barely raised eyebrows it was his turn to breathe out a laugh. "Okay, she was a bit overbearing."

"A bit."

Happy to linger within the shared smile and pleasant companionship, Daniel let the silence hold them in that moment, hold him within warmth and friendship, anger and fear and loss left behind, back on Earth, in a lonely apartment or a cluttered office beneath a mountain. He and Per'sus and Tymon were grieving something, were being followed by the persistent tag ends of losses and dark worries that threatened to overtake them. He hoped his gaze was asking the permission his mind urged him to put into words.

"Daniel," the Tok'ra stated simply, evenly. "You may ask."

Apparently, so. "And your own blending, Tymon?"

He was surprised by the quiet laughter, the flush of light in the High Councilor's face. "Why is it you can always seem to tell whether it is host or symbiote you are addressing? You know we can choose the temper of our voice, that we could pretend one way or another." A quick grimace of anger came and went. "Recent events should have made that clear."

The ghost of Shan'auc seemed to step between them, fraying their connection. Discomfort tugged at Daniel, and he reached up to adjust his glasses, brushing off the sudden wariness that sped out across his nerves. "Well, yes, if we hadn't already suspected –" He cut himself off and tried again. "I don't know. I suppose I'm fairly good at reading body language. Sometimes, when there is no common spoken language, it's all we have to try to communicate with the people we meet through the Stargate."

Tymon searched his face. "You observe and your mind finds the patterns, adds up the smallest fractions of movements, tones of voice. Linguist, diplomat, scholar - as I said before on your world, you have an amazing array of talents for one so young, Daniel."

Daniel's immediate urge to argue must have been painted across his face and the humor drained from Tymon's expression. "I only mean in comparison to the lifetimes contained in my memory and the quantity of years I've spent blended with my lifemate." His voice was soft, coaxing. "It is not a crime to be young, or to seek knowledge. And it is certainly not meant to … how does Jacob put it? To 'put you in your place.'"

"That obvious, huh?" Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Jacob's joining with Selmac has done much to help us understand your people. But, I believe," Tymon traced one finger along the edge of a delicate filigree along the vase's neck, "his military mind is much more akin to us than is yours. More easily understood." He raised his eyes. "We have been soldiers for so very long."

Shifting back and forth, Daniel waited for more, but Tymon seemed to have lapsed into a memory. He cleared his throat and tried again. "So, your blending with Per'sus …"

"Unlike the joinings you have experienced, mine was quite formal," Tymon explained, one hand still resting lightly on the vessel at his side. "I was raised from infancy to know that, until my joining, I would live at most a half-life. Solitary. Alone within my thoughts." A sudden light came into his face, a brightness shining from his features that had nothing to do with the familiar golden flash of a symbiote. "I was introduced to Per'sus and his former host, Maigret, after the last of us fled from our home, pursued by Goa'uld ships." His smile was nostalgic. "Quite old souls, both of them. They insisted that all the ritual forms and rites be performed, the chanting of the geneaology, fasting, purification, the words of acceptance and bonding stated among witnesses."

Daniel shuffled forward, intrigued. "It sounds a lot like a wedding ceremony."

"From what I understand, very similar indeed," Tymon agreed. "It is more intimate than any other type of joining." Head held at a regal angle, the Tok'ra curved one hand around the dull vase he'd been handling. Daniel noticed immediately that it was Per'sus speaking again, the shift between symbiote and host nearly dizzying. "More intimate than our mating, certainly. Although-" He cut off abruptly and lifted the wide necked vessel, cradling it in both hands. "This is a Tok'ra Chen-la – a Mating Vessel."

Daniel stepped closer, eyes drawn to the intricate coiled design as he himself was drawn in by the soft pain in Per'sus' voice.

"It was one of Lantash's most loved possessions. Even after Rosha was lost to them, they treasured their memories of lives shared." The Tok'ra's smile was warm, intimate, the doubling of his tone seeming that much thicker with emotion. "I thought perhaps your Major Carter would like to keep it."

Daniel froze, a jumble of memories drifting across his vision. Sam's face, shadowed behind prison bars, an alien voice speaking through her lips, promising him news of his stolen wife. Sam's strong shoulders shaking with grief, her body curled up, heartbroken, on the infirmary bed. Smiling blue eyes intent on Martouf's warm gaze, and then hard, disbelieving as she crouched over his torn and broken body at the base of the ramp.

He swallowed, frowning, as Per'sus touched the vase to Daniel's open palms and held it there. "I don't –" Shaking his head, he glanced up, trying to harness his churning thoughts and turn his raw emotions into diplomatic niceities. "Perhaps it should to go his family, his loved ones."

Per'sus' eyes were dark, troubled, but his voice was warm and even. "As Lantash's closest surviving family, I freely give this into your keeping, Daniel."

"You're –"

"Father would be the closest equivalent, genetically," the High Councilor added after a moment's pause.

Daniel, held fast by the Tok'ra's intent gaze, by the press of his fingers where they met on the cool porcelain held close between them, felt a meeting – a sharing – of his own grief, his own long-shouldered sorrows. "I am so very sorry for your loss, High Councilor."

"Per'sus."

"Per'sus."

The Tok'ra nodded slowly. A moment later, he shifted closer. "Do you feel that, Daniel?"

What Daniel felt was the heat of a telltale blush following a path up from his chest along the column of his neck and up into his cheeks. He had barely tensed to step back, to take back some personal space, when he noticed the flare of warmth beneath his fingers, the way the clay of the Chen-la seemed to grow hotter along the inside forefingers and thumbs where they rested against the Tok'ra's hands. He looked down to see the plain brown vase turning to rose, lightening in swirls of glittering hues from between their hands to dance across the surface.

"Wow."

"Indeed."

The simple word was laced with unvoiced delight and Daniel glanced up, torn between the Tok'ra's obvious pleasure and the beautiful light show going on between them. Tantalized, the drifting colors and the steady warmth drew him in and seemed to enfold him in a welcoming embrace. He fell.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"… _can't speak to the medical or physiological changes to our bodies and brains, or the technical psychological aspects – of which I am sure there were many - I can only report my own experiences as the Atonik armbands became active, and then, when the sensations they had caused ended so abruptly on the Goa'uld ship. I compare my feelings – the wants and desires that I seemed to have had no way to suppress and no wish to delay – to those of an adolescent. My id was completely in control. Hunger, envy, lust, the heady drive for power over enemies, and a single-minded focus on getting those 'needs' met._

_It compares most closely to the effects I felt from the Goa'uld sarcophagus addiction I experienced on Shyla's planet …"_

Fuck. Jack rubbed both hands over his face, letting the pages fall back to the table. Crouched there for the past half hour, reading and re-reading, feeling the not-quite-lies Daniel had written squirm in behind his eyes to stab sharp knives into his brain, Jack didn't know if it was the headache or the heartache that would be what finally killed him.

He did know that he couldn't read any more. Not and still look at himself in the mirror. And growing a beard was just not an option – geez, if the hair looked this grey, with a beard he'd really look like ole Grandpa O'Neill going out through the 'gate with the kiddies. Why not, he growled to himself, humor, sarcasm, the resources he always brought to bear when things got too serious suddenly way too thin to cover these scars. He felt more than old right now. More than ancient. This is what failure felt like.

"Had enough?"

He hadn't exactly forgotten Jacob was sitting there, watching, probably reading the disgust on Jack's face as he absorbed exactly what Daniel had done for him – done for them – by writing this … this farce.

"Oh, yes," Jack agreed quickly. "More than." He raised his head, hands clasped between his knees. Nope, hadn't forgotten him. But, Jack admitted to himself with a sideways twist of his lips, he had sorta hoped Jacob would disappear as quickly as he'd shown up and leave him to deal with this in peace.

"And you realize that this 'thing' with you and Sam slithered out of 'the room' a long time ago and hurt people – a lot of people?"

Jack sighed. No such luck on the disappearing department then. "Yes, Jacob. I get it." He knew he deserved the reminder, the heavy handed, in your face, relentless scouring and scraping of any possible thick-skinned excuses Jack might come up with, but he couldn't help the petulance, the snapping sarcasm. Hard truths always put Jack on the defensive. He could – and would - put the blame right where it belonged and come up with a way to put it right given the time to think, to brood, and to listen to his conscience and all the voices in his head that sounded an awful lot like Daniel. But having it shoved in his face brought out the worst in him – always had.

"Do you, Jack? Do you really?" The Tok'ra sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. He pointed at the pages Jack was definitely not going to look at again. "What do you think that … _nikhassa_ … cost Daniel? Do you think it was easy for him to do that? As easy as it was for you to send him off to a padded cell, or to tell him your friendship was a fantasy, or tell him to 'shut up' one time too many?"

Lips pressed tight to hold in the angry words that wanted – oh, they really wanted to come out - Jack surged to his feet and marched into the kitchen.

"You can't run from this, Jack!"

Jack slapped both hands on the counter and spun to face him. "I'm not running, Jacob! I just … I don't know …" Hands scrabbling for something to hold on to, no weapon, no damn pockets in the damn sweats he was still wearing to hide his fists, his urge to attack, to defend. He grabbed open the refrigerator and forced his hand past the beckoning beer to grip a bottle of water, fingers clenched tight.

The two men faced off, silent, breathing too hard. The second hand on the clock behind Jacob's head began another silent sweep before Jack was ready. Ready to say it.

"All I know," he began, his voice vibrating, guilt and rage a bitter taste on his tongue, "is that Daniel should never have to talk about that fucking sarcophagus again." And Jack himself would have been happy to find a deep, deep hole to bury anyone who said otherwise. The kid had been so young, too young. Jack remembered the sweat drenched face, flushed, gaunt with pain and guilt; blue eyes wild in the days of his withdrawal. The pleas, the shouts, the accusations, the shivering, shaking, begging for Jack to kill him, to just kill him, when Daniel remembered what he'd done. The way he'd drawn into himself, seeing his failure reflected in every face at the SGC, how he'd hidden his eyes from them for so long behind his hair, head down. Broken. Jack quit wringing the bottle's neck and threw it into the sink where it split and spewed out its contents in ragged bursts. "And he should damn well never have to use what happened, what that bitch did to him, as an excuse to get me out of trouble." _That_ was the truth.

Jacob – bastard – shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants and nodded his head. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

Heartbeat quieting, Jack fell into a chair and, after a narrowed glance and a long, rebellious hesitation, he shoved one out for the other man with his foot.

With a relieved sigh, Jacob dropped into it.

"Interesting analogy Danny used, though."

Jack tried another deep breath, eyes closed. "Jacob-"

The tap of fingers on his table made him open his eyes and glare at the Tok'ra.

"Listen to me, Jack. Guilt and blame is all well and good, but, while Daniel's report is all kinds of wrong, it's given Hammond a slim thread to grab onto to get us all out of this mess."

Hand waving through the air, Jack grimaced. "You mean the whole 'adolescent' thing? The 'not being in control of ourselves?'"

"Frasier's medical reports confirmed the physiological changes, the alien virus associated with the armbands." His smile came and went. "And the behavioral changes were out there for everyone to see. So, if none of you blamed Daniel for disobeying orders, or willful disregard of SOP, or assault, for that matter, when he was under the influence …" Jacob dipped his head as if waiting for Jack to fill in the rest.

Okay, Jack could do that. "Then Carter and I should get a 'pass' on the 'caring.'"

"Right."

Nice. All wrapped up in a neat little bow. Except – it wasn't exactly the truth, was it? Jack frowned, eyes darting to the left, and he shifted his weight in the hard wooden chair.

"Jack?"

He'd been acting like an ass long before Anise arrived with her box of toys and her transparent little plot to get SG-1 to take out Apophis' new ship. Nightmares didn't lie. Jack tilted his head from side to side. Okay, they might lie, but there was always some truth at the base of them. And the truth was, Jack had been wrong for a long time. Lazy. Relying on Irish charm and witty remarks coupled with the brains of the SGC's resident geeks, not to mention the decades of experience of one nasty Jaffa, to get Earth out of trouble again and again. They'd been lucky – so freakin' lucky – to still be alive. How could he blame all that on some stupid armband?

"Colonel O'Neill."

Glowing eyes. Rigid formality. Slightly patronizing expression. Jack slumped further in his chair in an instinctually opposite reaction. "Selmac, I presume?"

"I would advise you to alter the path of your thoughts before you act."

"Oh, yeah?" What the hell did a snake know about his thoughts?

The Tok'ra's eyebrows twitched. "You feel you must refute this statement by Doctor Jackson in order to expose the truth. That your improper actions predate the Atonik virus."

Okay. That was … creepy. "And if I do?" God, he hated it when those things agreed with him.

"Then I would ask; for whose benefit would you do this?"

Huh? Jack crossed his arms. "Look, Selmac, maybe you don't get it, but Jacob could tell you that, as an officer, I'm responsible for my people, not the other way around. If there's a mistake, a wrong attitude or action with my team, then it's my problem. My fault. Letting Daniel field this, act like he should have been dumped from the team long ago if caring too much or going against regs was the issue, arguing that the 'aliens made me do it,' or that me acting like a royal asshole was because of the stress of leading a team that included a trouble-magnet civilian – it's not who I am."

"I see." Jacob's eyes narrowed. "And your own sense of honor is more important than anything else? More important than maintaining SG-1, or recovering each member's place within it?"

Jack straightened, arms unfolding. "What?"

"It would seem - and Jacob agrees - that you are more interested in lessening your own sense of guilt than in accepting what your teammate has done for you," the Tok'ra held Jack's gaze, his face bland, eyes fiercely flat, "than in healing the divide among you."

Denial and guilt wrestled for dominance in Jack's gut. Hadn't the guy been listening? It was Jack's fault; he'd admitted it. Daniel's report might clear him and Carter, might take care of Hammond's investigation, but it couldn't be put into record as the truth. Jack wouldn't let it lay there in the SGC files, couldn't let any deskbound number-crunchers or DC pencil-pushers believe it.

"I ask again, Colonel. For whose benefit would you insist on negating Daniel Jackson's sacrifice? His obvious intention to give you back your command?"

Jack's hands fisted on the table. "It's not – he's not-"

"- not allowed to make this sacrifice? Not permitted to help you?"

"No, dammit!" Jack erupted, his chair hurtling backwards to crash into the cabinets behind him. "No! It shouldn't be – he's done –"

"You mean, hasn't Daniel been hurt enough?"

"_Yes!_" Propelled by the force of his self-loathing, the word tore through Jack's throat.

"Jack," Jacob, clearly back in control, was shaking his head. "Don't you see? If you don't take this … gift Daniel's wrapped up for you, if you insist on 'doing the right thing' and shouldering the blame – and the reprimands – for this, you'd be hurting him far more? You'd be taking away any hope of bringing his family, the only family he's managed to hang onto, back together." Sadness haunted the man's eyes, deepened the creases around his mouth. "I know something about broken families and pain, Jack. So do you."

Teeth clenched, Jack felt Jacob's words sink in, cut past all his inner walls and ramparts to reach the black hole still there, still empty at the center of his being. Guilt throbbed there, a living thing, pulsating with a sick insistence that, if he let this die, this friendship, this family that had given hard-assed, narrow minded, reckless, cheerless Jack O'Neill another chance at living, Daniel wouldn't be the only one lost.

The screech of wooden chair legs against his kitchen floor barely registered. The hand on his shoulder, Jacob's voice, gentle but firm, beside him drew his gaze slowly, as if his head was on a winch, its workings clogged with age and rust. "Yeah. Letting him hurt himself to help you. It feels like fifty miles of red hot barbed wire wrapped around your soul, doesn't it?" The hand squeezed and then fell away. "I know. Believe me. And Selmac's right there with us." The Tok'ra shifted closer, his stare unrelenting. "But ask yourself this, Jack. What's going to get you out there to Vorash, to Daniel's side where, I'm telling you, you really really need to be right now? Is it letting this thing with Sam, and Hammond's investigation, drag on? Or is it jumping at this opportunity Daniel's handed to you? That's the bottom line. That's the decision you need to make." He huffed a strangled sort of laugh. "You can drink yourself into a maudlin stupor later. I'll even help."

Obstinate. Stubborn. Jack could dig in his heels and stand on the duty and honor of an officer – the responsibility of a friend - until hell froze over. Beyond. And what, exactly would that solve?

"Hammond's on board with this? He knows –"

Jacob's smile looked painful. "Do you think that anyone who really knows Danny would believe one sentence of that report?"

Jack wanted to growl. "They'd better the hell _not_."

Waving one hand between them, Jacob sighed. "I guess you could call me the scouting party. George sent me out to see if you and Sam were really committed to each other, if your feelings were so strong you wanted to give it all up to be together." He held up one finger before Jack could bark a response. "Just to make sure you knew you had to make a decision – and once it was made, there was no turning back. My daughter is a damn fine woman and you can't – and I mean _ever_ – fall back into this cutesy-poo flirting crap at the expense of the rest of your team. Got it?"

"Hey! I do not do-"

"Don't make me call Teal'c."

Crap. "I think I'd designate you 'shock troops' rather than scouting party," Jack whined. The momentary resurgence of humor drained away and the air felt thick, staticy, as if a thunderstorm was just over the horizon. "Now what?"

"Get dressed." Jacob pushed back the too-long sleeve of his borrowed shirt and checked his watch. "I have one more stop to make to deliver some shock therapy – the Staff Car is waiting at the end of the street. Hopefully, you and Sam can head back to base in, say, two hours and get your marching orders."

_Two hours?_ "What happened to 'Daniel's in trouble,' and 'you've got to get to Vorash?'" Jack took a deep breath, prepared to argue, beg, demand, reason – anything to get this dog and pony show on the road. Too late now for time to think; thanks to Jacob, all of Jack's mental gears had been cold shifted, grinding and straining all the way, to get him on track.

Jacob's lips twisted in annoyance. "Yeah, like I really want to waste my time getting you two melon-heads in line. But this is the steaming pile you dropped us into, Jack, so don't blow it now. Hammond's walking a fine line here, and if he doesn't dot all his Is and cross his Ts we're looking at a much, much longer downtime that we can't afford. So, yeah, Daniel's on Vorash. Feeling abandoned and alone. His family falling to pieces. And, if I know Per'sus – and believe me, I do – this is an opportunity he's not about to pass up."

"Opportunity for what?" As if Jack didn't know. The nausea climbing up the back of his throat was in a foot race with the dread rushing through his veins.

Jacob strode towards the door, sweeping up the pile of papers on his way through Jack's living room. "Can we put the stupid colonel act on the same scrap heap as your budding romance, Jack?" he threw over his shoulder. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who's damned tired of it."

The slam of his front door echoed and died, leaving Jack standing in the silence of his empty house. Two hours. A grieving Daniel, determined to help his friends, having just relived one of the darkest times of his life so he could push the puzzle pieces of his family back together would be totally unaware that without his piece – the Daniel shaped piece – it would never hold.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The dark brown sand was cool and wet and coarse, it packed up in little mounds between his bare toes. A filigree of white foam edged the green waves, creeping closer and closer, until it finally burst over his feet, splashing up to drench his jeans, deepening the denim blue to indigo. Gulls cried overhead and Daniel raised his head, eyes closed to the sweet air, the taste of salt on his tongue, the breeze moving across his skin.

Peace. Home. He expected any moment to hear the voice of his teacher calling him back to his studies, or the more strident tones of his sisters commanding him to do this, carry that, hurry, boy, hurry. He lifted his arms to the sides, welcoming the last rays of the sun through every pore, head thrown back.

The Cloister rang with footsteps, the children's quick and light, the slower, deeper tones of the adults' punctuating their staccato rhythms with a steadier pace, a more solemn cadence. Here and there whispers grew to bold laughter, a sudden greeting shouted and returned, and soon, on the heels of its echo, the double-voiced Master calling the boys and girls to quiet.

Daniel walked with the others of his generation: three girls, two other boys, all that were born within a hand span – five years – of his own birth. So few. The smallest Taghi ever since the Tok'ra planted the humans here on Fyntani. He'd heard the Elders say there was something wrong with the minerals in the soil, or, perhaps, in the rays from the sun. There was talk of a great move, of searchers sent to find a place of safety, or to beg space from another Cloister like the ones on Talliche or Granjada. Daniel hoped they didn't have to go, not until the end of the term, until they'd been matched with their lifemates. Chosen.

A sharp tug on his tunic pulled him from his thoughts and into the classroom. He followed Driana's swinging braid to their bench, settled himself quickly on the soft, worn wood and finally glanced up to where Innano, his teacher, was readying the view screen. Three chimes of the hour bell and Innano began, perfectly on time, as usual, whether his small charges were ready or not.

The Master waved the crystal over the sensor at the edge of the screen and it came to life. Daniel drew in his breath, slim shoulders straightening, eyes wide to take in every curve, every color, every small movement of the figure displayed before them. He barely heard the murmurs from his friends, was not distracted by Hendler's instinctual bowing of his head, or Sorani's gasp. His spirit lifted within him and he found himself blinking tears from his eyes.

The Great Lady. The Wise Mother. Egeria

Cold fear stabbed through him, freezing his muscles, his breath turning into great blocks of ice in his chest. Not his mind – not his memories. Scenes and scents and voices Daniel had never witnessed, not in his life or imagination. No sisters or green seas, no yearning desire for blending, to be chosen as lifemate, as host.

Blind now, darkness reaching out to smother him, Daniel's fingers fumbled at the back of his neck, nails scratching, pulling, searching for a gaping wound, torn flesh, hot blood –

"Am I – did you –" No. No.

A warm presence on either side enfolded him, whispering comfort, peace, and safety. Soothing noises eventually shouldering through his deafening fear. Daniel stood within a cocoon of swiftly shifting visions: standing side by side with a fierce, regal woman he knew to be Egeria's final host, the plain before them filled with kneeling human figures, the pyramid at their backs crowned by one blazing desert sun; hidden rooms, moldy and filled with the stench of sweat and fear, where the first Tok'ra crouched, divided by suspicion, linked by conscience and intention; the alien, twisted, colorless sight of the symbiote as Per'sus tore through the open mouth of his dying host to see the awe-filled face of he who would bond with him of his own volition, bringing with him heart-wrenching grief and soul-deep devotion; battlefields filled with the red blood of humans and the blue of their lifemates, the drone of death gliders overhead, crackling energy as Fianna fell at his side, brown eyes open, already clouding in death, host and symbiote lost in a single strike. Faces caught in surprise – fear – anger – sorrow – pain at the cusp of death, so many, leaving him alone. Alone again.

Sha're's face, still and silent beside him beneath the golden trappings of her captor.

No! Daniel hurled himself from the scene, scrambling for purchase, desperately searching for a way out. No. Not a host. _Not a host_ – he heard himself sob.

"No, Daniel."

"We would never-"

"You are safe. Completely safe and whole."

Daniel fell back into his body, sensed the farthest reaches of his skin, whole and unbreached. His eyes were closed, muscles and nerves on fire from the fight or flight reflex that still rushed through him, shaking. His breathing stuttered, rough and painful, oxygen finally easing the sledgehammer inside his skull. Adrenaline held him upright, kept his legs braced, the hands still trapping his on the Chen-la steadying him when he wavered. His limbs were heavy, but all his. All his.

"Daniel."

He opened his eyes, blinking the salt of sweat – and something else he wouldn't name – from his lashes to bring the Tok'ra's face into focus. Close. Too close. He shifted his weight to step away but Per'sus' direct, intent gaze held him in place.

"Wh- what are you doing?" Daniel lifted his hands where they held the vessel between them, a small, pleading gesture. "What's going on?" His voice was a murmur, quavering and childlike when he wanted to demand, to accuse, strong and certain. To hurl curses, lash out with hard fists and brutal words.

"Sharing, Daniel. We are simply sharing some of ourselves with you. Memories, thoughts, to show you our heart." Per'sus' smile was brief, his forehead creased with worry. "The Chen-la helps us, releases a chemical which opens the senses, that allows the transfer of memory mind to mind."

Daniel's thoughts raced, trying to carry him past his fury, his fear. He fumbled, trying to gather up his most precious memories, the soft curve of his mother's cheek, the warmth and welcome of his father's arms, the good and bad of Jack's friendship. Sha're. He grabbed at those memories, feelings so close to the center of his soul, so defining of him as a person – his true self – and hurried to pack them all behind walls of stone, locked away and barred from sight, from prying fingers and curious stares. He mentally rehearsed the latest photos of glyphs SG-8 had brought back from PC8-997 when the current SGC iris codes flipped past his inner eye.

"I didn't agree to this – you never asked –"

"I am sorry, Daniel. The strength and suddenness of the bond surprised us as well." Per'sus' eyes darkened, emotion curling in their depths as his head inclined in obvious apology. "This type of … merging … is common only among those Tok'ra who choose to join with one another in mating, and then only through the skin to skin contact of symbiotes within the vessel." He glanced down to their entangled fingers on the outer surface of the clay urn. "Those who choose a deeper bond."

Daniel licked dry lips, trying to come up with a reply. His initial panic was ebbing, but the fear sharpened his suspicions, sent the warmth and friendship he'd welcomed – he'd _needed_ - with Tymon and his symbiote packing.

"I am sorry that this has startled you, Daniel," Per'sus began again gently, "but the sharing itself is not unwelcome to me. I would happily share more –"

"No!" Knuckles white where he still gripped the Chen'la, Daniel shuddered. "I'm – I'd rather not," he managed after a moment, reluctantly searching for the broken shell of diplomacy he was expected to display, "it's not something humans – ah, Earth humans – are comfortable with." He slowly eased his hands open, a wave of relief sweeping through him when Per'sus nodded solemnly and stepped backward, releasing him. Daniel felt the stifling air around him move and, finally, he could breathe again.

He watched silently, rubbing his hands together as Per'sus returned the mating vessel to its stand. Daniel's skin tingled, his palms dry and hot, as sensitive as his churning emotions.

"My host is upset." Per'sus didn't turn, but kept his back turned. "He takes me to task for allowing our unexpected merging. He reminds me that the desire for a deeper bonding, the true sharing that I would seek with you comes slowly to humans, after much time." His wide shoulders rose and fell. "I believe Jacob refers to this as 'reading Selmac the riot act,' although I do not know why."

Daniel wanted to absolve him, to put this behind them and draw the Tok'ra and host back towards the easy camaraderie that had been building between them. But this – this was – he swallowed once, twice, bile searing his throat. Gaze flicking away from the Tok'ra's back, from the vessel, to search walls and floor and alien artifacts for a distraction, and then finding himself staring at Per'sus' wide shoulders, Daniel retreated behind the unemotional mask of scholarship. "That phrase originated in a time when one of our governments was concerned with the possibility of unruly gatherings leading to out and out rebellion. Local magistrates would read out the words of the law to groups that looked and sounded prone to aggression or violence in order to warn them of more punitive action if they refused to settle down."

Per'sus straightened so suddenly it was almost a flinch, as if Daniel had struck him right between the shoulders. He turned, his face that bland, diplomat's mask. "Thank you for your explanation," he commented dryly.

It was Daniel's turn to flinch. His gut churned, despair rising up in his throat. What had he done? Missteps and mistakes were bound to happen when interacting with a new culture. Per'sus hadn't – he hadn't – Daniel shook free of fear - he'd treated Daniel as he would a member of his own culture. Wasn't that what this visit was all about? Was he going to slam shut the armored doors between them at the first sign of trouble? Of misunderstanding? This was his job, dammit. He wasn't Jack O'Neill to lump the Tok'ra together with the Goa'uld as if 'a snake was a snake,' no matter what it called itself. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, Daniel painfully drew himself back from anger, from withdrawal behind shields that had been shored up and strengthened into near absolute impenetrability over the past few months.

More than that – more than Per'sus' offer of a deeper understanding, culture to culture, more than the expectations of the Earth government riding on this treaty, this mission of Daniel's - more than that, Daniel could not turn his back on Per'sus – and Tymon's – honest, welcoming friendship. A hand stretched out in an authentic offer of companionship. Not now. Not … not when he'd lost so much. He drew in a deep breath. What had he quoted to Tymon in the SGC infirmary – about truth always being acceptable among friends?

"Per'sus-" Daniel dropped the scholarly tone, the indifferent expression, and allowed the confusion, the hurt, to show, glaring and obvious. "I don't know why, but we've – I've – got a knee-jerk, instinctual resistance to the thought of …" his words stumbled to a halt. Violation – rape – he grasped for the words to explain, to describe how raw and vulnerable he'd felt. "Opening myself to that level, even to someone I know, to someone I trust with my life," he shook his head, "it's not easy." No. Never easy. Especially when that person, that one person he'd trusted to always be on his side had left him for greener pastures.

Slowly, the Tok'ra's expression softened, closing in again on their fragile connection. "Perhaps a genetic mutation based on the interference in your history by the Goa'uld?"

"Perhaps," Daniel agreed. "A cultural memory of the Goa'uld threat, an inherent need for independence. Perhaps we guard ourselves so completely, value our privacy and solitude because, at one time, we lived in fear of losing ourselves to Ra and others like him." Yes, that was the intelligent explanation, the right scientific jargon to excuse his reaction. But it wasn't really the truth. Not Daniel's truth. "But, for me, it's more … personal."

He let the memories of Sha're come, let them fill him with the scent of her hair, the smooth curve of her back, her fierce passion, the dancing intelligence and humor that lit her eyes, that lit his world for so short a time.

He opened his eyes, letting it all out, tears gathering. "My wife was taken by Apophis to host his queen."

Per'sus did not try to speak words to ease his pain, or offer meaningless platitudes. But Daniel was surprised to find an answering pain and an echoing moisture in the Tok'ra's eyes.

"She's dead now," he continued. "But, even at the end, she managed to hold onto a part of herself and reach out to me." The seconds held in thrall to the ribbon device on Amonet's hand turning to days and weeks in his mind and memory, time with his Sha're that he could not label as fantasy or dream, that Daniel drew down into his soul as the true and real last moments with his wife. "I've hated the Goa'uld for a long time." The words slipped from his lips, barely a whisper.

"The Goa'uld have stolen so many, taken fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, lovers and friends from countless innocents across the heavens. They have hidden behind the eyes of friends, stalking those whom they desire." Per'sus voice was flavored with of eons of loss, of lifetimes of sorrow. "They've raped minds and bodies. Devoured souls."

The words of an ancient text unspooled from Daniel's mind. "'Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.'"

A sigh brought him back to the present and Daniel looked up to see Per'sus bring his hands together, clasping them tightly before his mouth, and then his forehead, and then his heart in an ancient gesture that Daniel somehow knew meant utter, abject penitence. Tears flowed freely down the Tok'ra's cheeks.

"I would not add the weight of a single heartbeat to your pain, Daniel, nor reach out to take – to steal – a half-breath of your time, your memory. I pledge this to you, now, _we_ pledge," his voice was suddenly full, as if both host and symbiote spoke at the same time, "to do all, everything, to heal this hurt, to earn trust, to accept friendship on any terms you put forth."

His throat thick with emotion, Daniel blinked, shook his head, unable to speak.

"To offer only, and to take no offense at rejection," Per'sus continued, "and offer yet again."

Maybe it really was time for new connections. Time to look forward. Distrust bred distrust – if working with the military mind taught him one thing it was that. Peeling away the barely formed scabs from new, bloody wounds left him raw and aching. Needy. Others had left Daniel behind – many others. He'd accepted, forgiven, forgotten when he could. Tried to do his part to heal the breaches behind him, to return comforting words and open doors for harsh rejection or neglect or abandonment. This time _he_ could be the one that acted, that reached for something he wanted. That counted the costs and weighed the outcomes against his loneliness.

"I'd like that."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"O'Neill."

"T."

Jack slid his sunglasses down his nose and gazed warily at the figure before him. Two hours to the minute after Jacob left saw him driving his truck in through the tunnel to his parking spot. After nodding to the SFs on duty, all business, as if his crap didn't stink and he hadn't been escorted off base under guard twenty-four hours ago, he'd strolled towards the checkpoint to find his teammate standing – waiting – hands behind his back, as if he'd stood there all night. Or maybe Teal'c and Jacob had some kind of 'let's synchronize our symbiotes' special op going on. Could be his headstrong teammate had parked himself at the security entrance hoping for the opportunity for a little Kick the Colonel when Jack got himself invited back to base.

Something was different. Jack took advantage of the few moments between noticing the Jaffa and reaching him with his casually hasty stroll. Over the past three years men and women at the base had gradually learned to trust the taciturn alien, to treat him as a member of the command, no different from a particularly forceful non-com. Younger airmen had found him to be a patient teacher; older, more arrogant officers found out the hard way that they could be knocked on their collective asses with little or no effort. Teal'c had earned both groups' respect without any help from Jack. But lately Teal'c's impressive bulk had been shadowed, as if an aura of anger and pride wrapped him in a thick shroud labeled with a 'Keep Out' sign written six feet high in blood red letters. Lately airmen scurried out his way, took one look at his thunderous expression and visibly turned to quivering piles of jelly. Jack let his gaze track down his teammate's face, across his relaxed jaw, down the muscles of his neck – not bunched with restrained violence - over broad shoulders that still rivaled the current WWF champ's but no longer appeared to be itching to get out of their cage and spread some damage around. Why was Jack finally noticing the Jaffa's closed-off fury when it looked like it had disappeared?

He stopped, drawing in a long breath as he gathered up another round of 'should haves' and 'why didn't yous' aimed straight at his silver birds. There sure was a better view out here where his head wasn't up his ass. Jack nodded, grimacing, trying to load that one gesture with enough meaning to communicate his fault, his responsibility, and his intention to put things right to his brother-in-arms. A tiny inclination of Teal'c's head seemed to acknowledge everything Jack didn't say.

"Are we …" Jack paused, hoping the other man would fill in the awkward blanks. One eyebrow twitched. That was it. Jack spread his hands. "Help me out here, buddy."

"General Hammond has sent me to escort you to the infirmary."

Infirmary. Riiiight. Jack's single focus had been to get geared up and head out to Vorash to stand between Daniel and his pain, but there was still that tiny little hiccup about frat regs and commanders' responsibilities and looming charges making an iris-shaped wedge between him and his archaeologist. Gotta document the funky brain damage probably caused by Anise's – Freya's? – whichever's handy dandy mind fucker. Or armbands. The excuse du jour that Hammond had grabbed on to. "Okay," Jack glanced around coolly, noticing for the first time that the SFs were keeping their distance, eyes averted. The military equivalent of 'see no evil, hear no evil' - offering the only kind of privacy Jack was likely to get. He slid one arm of his shades behind the button on his shirt and put his hands in his pockets, offering his teammate his full attention.

The lines and planes of Teal'c's face were no longer hard – tight and angular, sculpted out of dark marble that could cut you if you got too close – but there was still an unsettled anticipation behind the calm; pent up energy that was searching for an outlet. His hooded gaze was fixed somewhere over Jack's left shoulder. "I would have come regardless of General Hammond's wishes or requirements." His voice was clear as crystal in the cool morning air. "There is much that must change. Much that must be made right."

Yep. Everything the Jaffa was saying was true. First, that Jack could count on him. 'Always knew it, big guy,' he said to himself. Second, that Jack had better get his act together right the hell now, or Teal'c would 'happen' all over him. Jack waited, listening. He owed Teal'c this, this lecture, warning, wherever his teammate was headed. But, damn it, words would not touch the way Jack felt, the burning in his chest, the unfurling dread in his belly. "Look, T. I screwed up. I _know_ this." His impatience probably sounded like disdain.

Dark eyes fixed on Jack's, stealing his hasty assurances right from the tip of his tongue.

"You were not alone in your folly, O'Neill. I am a veteran of many more decades than you. Had I not allowed myself to be swayed by my own weaknesses, to become complacent to the Goa'uld's tactics and blind to the evidence of fractures within SG-1, that the stress of battle had –"

"Hey, hang on there." Jack raised his hands between them. "It does say 'colonel' on my uniform, and - so - therefore, my team, my mistakes, my blame. And I'm not sharing." No more. He would not let Teal'c grab up any of his own responsibility, thank you very much. Not like - Jack's guilt flashed fire behind his sternum again. Not like Daniel had. No matter what Jacob had said, no matter how right the former general turned Tok'ra was, the situation still stuck in Jack's throat.

"That much is true," Teal'c agreed easily.

"What?" Jack felt like he was losing whatever train of thought he'd rode in on.

"I am simply agreeing with you, O'Neill."

"Oh. Well, okay." He shrugged, hands still caught in his pockets. "That was easy." He shifted his weight, relieved to find Teal'c falling in at his side as he had so many times before as they made their way to the elevators, Jack's fingers fumbling for his security card.

"Indeed. You are not the first commander to make this mistake, O'Neill," Teal'c continued, unrelenting. "To injure your leaders' cause in order to pursue selfish desires."

Ouch. "Thank you," he bit back at the Jaffa with just a hint of a snarl.

"Nor the first to wound friends –brothers – to break the bonds of warriors and overlook the consequences of his actions."

Jack tried not to snap back, to cut off the awful flow of truth from his teammate's lips. Teal'c had every right to remind him of his stupidity and shortsightedness. He slipped through the barely open doors of the elevator and smacked at the controls with a little too much enthusiasm, feeling the weight of command press down thicker and stronger with every floor they passed.

"We will speak of your blame as well as my own foolishness, O'Neill."

Frowning, Jack turned to search the big man's face. The edge of anger was still right there, just below the surface, but, beyond that, deeper and wider, was a sense of loss, of sorrow, that turned Jack's impatience and irritation into concern. "Teal'c –"

"Do not mistake me," the Jaffa interrupted smoothly. "Because I _choose_ to follow your commands," his emphasis was obvious, "do not think that I truly have less experience in battle, in warrior clans, in the giving and taking of those who serve together." His voice thinned to a knife's edge – a knife twisting in Teal'c own heart. "Or of the power – the need for a sense of normalcy, of constancy, when faced with pain and terror and confusion on a daily basis." He turned, stepping close, for the first time pressing the advantage of height and bulk and alienness as he faced Jack, wore the weight of his years, the lives he'd taken, the warriors that had fallen under his command, lives and deaths, torture and slavery, blood very definitely on his hands. "I am Jaffa. First Prime. I should have seen."

Meeting the sharp stare, the searing gaze of this man who had fought battles almost every day of his long life under the iron fist of a false god, Jack would not look away. He stood, unblinking, without argument, and listened.

"However," Teal'c continued pointedly, the word drawing out the power of his presence like poison, leaving him smaller, safer somehow, "no matter that my actions have injured my friends – my warrior brothers – there will be time for blame, for reproach, when SG-1 is again complete."

Jack held his gaze, one hand coming to rest on the Jaffa's shoulder. "Priorities."

The Jaffa turned away, hands once again caught behind his back, facing forward. "Indeed. These matters are far from settled no matter the findings of General Hammond and Doctor Frasier."

"Oh, believe me, I feel exactly the same way," Jack agreed darkly. _Far from settled_. Nice understatement there.

The numbers blinked on and off, the tension filling the elevator growing the deeper they descended. Moving through security on Level 11, Jack felt his jaw clenching around words unsaid and apologies unspoken. Teal'c and he were back on the same page with very little effort on Jack's part. That solid presence at his side felt great – and, at the same time, made Jack feel utterly, ridiculously small. His teammate deserved more – much more than an easy admission of guilt and a bare nod towards self-reproach. But right now …

The Jaffa beat him to the punch again.

"The ways of the Tau'ri are not the ways of the Jaffa."

Making their way easily past bland-faced airmen and into the second elevator, Jack rolled that factoid around in his head. Alone again, headed towards another kind of confrontation, he sighed. "Wanna elaborate?"

One eyebrow rose. "It is not considered a weakness for a warrior's unit to become his family. In fact, it is expected – encouraged – that he put off his past alliances and seek to find his place, his comfort, friendships, those who would mentor him, as well as those who he himself would guide to maturity, among his warrior brothers."

"Yeah?" Jack frowned. "So you're saying …"

Teal'c drew himself up and gazed down his nose at Jack, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "I would expect no less than that you 'care' for those under your command, O'Neill. _All_ those under your command."

Jack's mind skipped back to the only words spoken out loud in front of Frasier, Teal'c, Anise, even Carter. He cared. For Carter. More than he was supposed to. Of course he did. She was one of his, his kids, his family. His heart lurched at the thought of Teal'c trapped behind that shield on Apophis' ship, staunchly accepting his fate. At the vision of Daniel's pain-filled blue eyes, more concerned for Jack's loss than his own impending death. Huh. Wasn't that a kick in the mikta? Maybe Daniel wasn't the only one who was aching for family.

The elevator door opened and Jack stepped out, his brother at his side. His step lighter, mind freer than it had been in a long time, he grinned.

"Yeah, I love you, too, big guy."

oOo

Janet Frasier filled one more vial, carefully labeled and stored it, and handed off the tray of Jack's bodily fluids to her nurse, the professional mask and unemotional attitude never wavering. Jack watched her sign off on his paperwork, his elbow bent, cotton ball pressed over the latest hole she'd made. Few words had been exchanged – simple requests and explanations, Frasier's eyes focused on her quick hands, readouts from her machines, never quite meeting his, her voice even, just a shade closer to friendly than clinical. Once she snapped the latex gloves off and tossed them into the trash, everything changed.

Warm brown eyes lifted to his, the wariness he'd expected nowhere to be seen. "Cup of coffee, Colonel?"

He returned her smile easily and hitched off the bed to follow her tiny form into her tiny office, tossing the cotton ball into the closest bin on the way. Sliding into the one chair that fit across her perfectly organized desk, he watched her back, slim shoulders beneath the white coat as straight as any airman he'd ever stood with in battle. Frasier had fought her own kinds of battles, wrestled life from death in hospitals, infirmaries, and on battlefields – Earthly and alien. Soldier, scientist, independent, strong woman, she and Carter had a lot in common. Not the least of which was the need to walk the tightrope of being one of few females on a base full of jock-wearing, testosterone-pumping, caveman-type alpha males.

When she turned, handing him a cup of the second best coffee on base, he nodded, realizing that he wasn't talking with the CMO, or his doctor, or Anise/Freya's SGC nemesis – he was talking to Samantha Carter's best friend. He sipped slowly, inhaling the fragrant steam, taking in the pinched skin around the doctor's eyes, the subtle shifting of her weight in the chair, the way she pressed her hands against the desk as if stretching cramped muscles.

"Today's my day for apologies," Jack began, suddenly sure that Frasier hadn't slept since … since before Anise and her mind-dredger showed up.

"Sir-" she held up one small hand and took a slow breath. "Jack," she corrected with the hint of a smile, "that's not why I brought you in here."

He raised his eyebrows, silently asking her to go on.

"I should have seen it."

Oy. Jack groaned, loud and dramatically, eyes closed. "Not you, too." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I don't think I can take another one of these 'mea culpa' sessions, Doc. First Daniel, then Teal'c –"

"No, sir," her clipped tone brought his head up. The exhaustion was still there, but now it was hidden behind a sharp, cold rage. "Unlike Daniel, Teal'c and I really do have something to be guilty about. I'm sure he's already brought it up with you, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me speak."

Jack made a vague gesture with one hand and held onto his cup for dear life.

"I should have noticed. No, that's not quite right," Frasier's mouth tightened. "I _did_ notice. And so did you. I noticed that Sam was changing, that she'd lost her edge, her focus. One year ago, she'd never have imagined a time when she'd put her ambition on the back-burner to pursue a man." The doctor shook her head. "The woman who swept into the briefing room her first day on base talking about where her reproductive organs were located, who spit nails after that mission to Simarka where they dared put her in a dress, and her male teammates had the balls to tell her she 'looked good,' would not be concerned about what color lip gloss to wear, which mascara wouldn't run in high alien humidity, or how her BDUs should be tailored to fit her butt." Her voice rose, her outrage spiced with self-blame. One hand flattened the file folder on her desk as she tried to rein in her temper.

Jack leaned back as if trying to escape the verbal storm, bracing himself for more. "Gee, why don't you get it all off your chest there, Doc."

"Dammit!" Frasier gave the folder a good whack and then wrapped the other hand around her fist. "If I hadn't been so distracted by that … by that Tok'ra excuse for a scientist, all boobs and superiority," her sharp snort could have been a laugh, but Jack recognized it for the grunt of self-mockery that it was, "if I wasn't so busy trying to justify my inclusion in both the armband fiasco and this zatarc testing, or felt so threatened by Anise's disdain, I would have seen that my best friend was turning into a simpering idiot whenever you were in the room."

Carter hadn't been quite so … forthright … in her demands to be 'one of the guys' in a long time. Not since Jack's ego had kicked his friendliness up into something altogether different and dangerous. Not that he noticed that she was wearing more makeup. Perfume. Standing closer. Gazing... sheesh. He was a complete moron. Yeah, it took two to completely foul this team up, but the shit that was in fact slapping against the fan in bucket-loads would always, ultimately, absolutely, positively be Jack's fault. He'd barely opened his mouth when Frasier speared him with one pointed finger.

"And you! All puffed up and preening whenever she told you you were right, even when you were dead wrong!"

The last swallow of coffee tasted like battery acid. Jack put up both hands. "Guilty," he shouted back, grateful to see that his bark snapped the doctor out of her flow mid-tirade. "Guilt acknowledged and accepted, Doc. Now why don't you tell me what you've got hidden away in that folder to cover my flat white ass and get me out to Vorash to round up my archaeologist?"

For a minute it looked like Janet wouldn't be distracted, that she'd simply take a deep breath, wind up, and let him have it all over again. Then, as Jack watched, she pushed it all back down, darkening the half-circle bruises under her eyes, deepening the haze of exhaustion, and the tightness of her muscles. He hated doing it, forcing her to swallow the stress, the worry and dread for her friends, Jack's teammates, but, as a soldier – an officer – she knew, she understood about priorities. And as a doctor, Janet Frasier knew all about what was acute and what could wait. What had to wait.

She flipped the folder open, the pages rustling with the force of her movements. "Brain chemistry, sir. I'll be performing Major Carter's tests later today, but the results we have so far tell us that the Atonik armbands' virus had some long range effects that we were unaware of." Her finger followed a red line along one graph. "High levels of testosterone in you, and a huge dopamine imbalance. That is the chemical that induces those 'madly in love' to, quite literally, act madly – stay up all night, take on ridiculous risks, throw themselves in front of a moving train to protect the person they've fixated upon."

"Sounds … sciency."

"You're familiar with the signs, sir. Racing heart, sweaty palms, flushed skin – those are the result of norepinephrine, an enzyme that feels just like adrenaline." She paused for a moment to glance up at him. "All three of you said that you experienced rushes of something like adrenaline that kept you from thinking about what you were doing. These two chemicals can induce sleeplessness, elation, intense energy, craving, loss of appetite, and, most importantly, singularly focused attention."

"So, Carter and I were singularly focused on each other."

Frasier nodded. "That's the theory, sir."

"Huh." Wow. She was good. "And the zatarc thingy?"

Janet's smile wasn't forced or tight this time. She closed the file and folded her hands. "That's easy, sir. As Anise demonstrated, only the literal truth would give off a 'true' reading." Her dark eyes were kind. "You didn't say you loved Sam, sir. You said you cared about her more than you were supposed to."

Jack scrubbed one hand over his face. The literal truth. Teal'c had known it all along. Team. Family. Throw his stupid, obnoxious behavior of the past year or so into the 'aliens made me do it' trash bin and move on. Frasier, Teal'c, Hammond – didn't sound like any of them was particularly worried by their little tap dance around the truth. Maybe Jack's definition of family should be expanded a bit. That left only …

"What about Daniel? If we're going with this 'theory,'" his air quotes reeked of sarcasm, "Daniel wore the armbands, too. Just what exactly was he fixated on?"

Janet's gaze fell to her folded hands as if she kept the truth caged up between them. "These chemicals – as well as the Atonik virus – affect everyone a little differently, sir. Temperament, relationship history, memory, all these are factors that shape the way our brains respond to stimuli." She curved her hands as if describing a winding road. "The paths taken by our neural impulses are carved deeply and smoothed to glass by all of these things, as if we're hardwired to respond in certain ways. Daniel's life has prepared him for loss, has taught him that he can expect only loss and pain as the end result of close relationships." Her smile was sad. "You and Sam reached out to each other. Daniel," she shrugged and started again. "Mentally, emotionally, physically, Daniel packed his bags and prepared to move on."

Jack jerked upright in his seat. "Hold on a minute. You're – are you saying that this … this neuro-whatsis crap is true? That we really are still being affected by the armbands?"

Now Janet was frowning. "Yes, Colonel. What did you think we were talking about?" She tilted her head to one side. "Sir. Did you think I'd – that my findings were falsified?" Eyes wide then narrow, teeth clenched, Janet Frasier bristled dangerously. "With all due respect, Colonel O'Neill-"

- which clearly translated as 'zilch' in Jack's mind –

"- no matter how I feel about certain men and women under my care, I would never disgrace my oath as an officer or as a physician by tampering with medical files!"

Shit. Jack quickly dug through his heavily filtered memory of Janet's words and Jacob's terse explanations, slapped them back into shape without his own guilt and blame to warp them, and finally listened. "But-"

Frasier was pissed. "You and Sam might have been skirting the edge of the frat regs for months, sir; acting like infatuated idiots, but the effects of the armbands is very real. Without their chemical 'nudges' you most likely would never have come under suspicion of being a zatarc because one clear thought about your emotions towards your teammates, those under your command, would have answered all of your questions and snapped you out of your little romantic daydream." She leaned closer. "You would never have second-guessed yourself, sir."

Holy shit. "Of course. Right." What the hell had he been thinking? That Frasier would doctor her own test results? Let something she knew to be false stand in someone's medical file? No freakin' way. And Hammond – he might bend over backwards to keep Jack from smack downs for insubordination or smart-ass remarks to high level flunkies or political weenies, but lie – outright lie? The man was as honorable and dedicated as they came.

"My head really is up my ass, Doc," Jack muttered. He reached across the desk and grabbed at one of her hands, holding her angry gaze for a long moment. "Janet."

She stared, her fury gradually drifting into concern. Acceptance. Maybe even forgiveness.

"I owe you and Cassie two tickets to that frou-frou health spa you like so much."

"Yes, you do, sir," she replied quickly, squeezing his fingers once before she let go. "But, more importantly-"

"I know, I know." Jack stood and knocked his fist against the desk. "I've got a wormhole to catch and a hurting archaeologist to drag home."

Her quiet insistence kept him from moving, from racing for the locker room and the armory – not necessarily in that order. Liquid brown eyes held him fast. "He needs you, Jack."

"Yeah. He does." Jack nodded. "Daniel needs his family."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

It was suddenly so different.

The slashing lines of each tunnel, walled with crystalline formations that reflected every movement in every direction; the bland, sand colored clothes of the Tok'ra transformed to flashes of deep russet and gold by the striations of elements fused into walls and floors and ceilings, voices carrying so that every conversation, each and every whisper, traveled around corners to any waiting ear. The comfortless rooms devoted to strategy and planning, never allowing those within a moment's rest or peace as they weighed lives, balanced secrecy with the Tok'ra's soul-deep desire to end the reign of the Goa'uld forever. What had been alien, unexplained, even irritating during past visits now revealed hidden purposes, displayed a philosophy that resonated within Daniel's bones. He could, so very easily, let himself feel at home here.

But, every few steps here and there along the lengthy tour of the Tok'ra base, without warning, the tunnel floors rang discordantly beneath Daniel's boots. Wherever the thin coating of sand and soil had rubbed away, in the intersections of crossing hallways, at the center of a long flight of spiraling stairs, where many feet had hurried along, brushing the dust and dirt into small piles along the edge of the curved walls, the compacted crystal shone through. And, every time, it startled him, echoing one loud tone among these habitually quiet people, a clanging sound that put a hitch in his step. Out of step, out of sync – every time it reminded Daniel of his status as outsider, as outcast. Even with the connection struck so deeply into his heart by Per'sus' actions, by the merging of memories, Daniel stood apart.

The child Tymon who laughed and played and cried within Daniel's memories cautioned him to silence, and Daniel found himself glancing up at the crystalline roof above his head with every echoing footfall. Finally, when the tightened muscles of his shoulders grew into an ache, when the careful placement of his feet turned into an awkward, shuffling dance, Tymon put out one hand to rest along Daniel's arm, stopping him in the shadowed curve of a deserted corridor.

"What troubles you, my friend?"

In earlier days, it would have been Daniel who was full of questions, who attempted to dig – as diplomatically as possible – beneath the Tok'ra's reserved, secretive shells to glean any information about their culture and society. Today, among the few Tok'ra they'd spoken with as Per'sus led him, unguarded, in and out of what he knew were sensitive areas, Daniel had not asked a single thing. The moments of connection with Per'sus and Tymon, the way the thoughts of the joined pair had melded with his own thoughts and memories and had become an intrinsic part of Daniel Jackson's life story had made those questions unnecessary. And it had instilled in him an all-pervading wariness, a certainty that this moment of peace was likely to end in unforeseen but all too familiar violence.

The Tok'ra had been fighting against loss for centuries, among painful reminders of their solitude, driven from the community of their species even as they rejected its pervasive evil. _Centuries. Millenia_. Daniel had only one short, human lifetime to compare, but the parallels were certain. Striking. Obvious.

"I keep expecting to hear death gliders. Or screams," Daniel admitted, frowning. Those memories were the strongest, linked forever with his first sight of Nagada, the scream of gliders, the sudden searing heat of staff weapons. He covered Tymon's hand with his own, hoping to forestall yet another apology. "It's okay. I – I'm glad that at least I can understand a bit of your history, now. Living with the constant dread of the Goa'uld, of wondering if today would be the day they found you – found the human settlements you created." The remnants of Tymon's fear, of his childish pride in his selection as possible host, followed so quickly by the hollow dread, the emptiness and terror that filled him at the sight of his dead family mirrored Daniel's own childhood, the pride in his parents' achievements, in his inclusion in their heady world, and then, with the snap of a metal chain, the screaming grief that stole his childhood. He turned his mind from the familiar pain and reached out for knowledge, his ever ready means of self-comfort. "Are there any Cloisters left, Tymon? Out there, in the galaxy?"

"A few. A very few." The Tok'ra's eyes were clear, his back unbent by the weight of sorrow. "Hidden away, far from any of our active bases. There our most gifted scholars keep the archives of our race and teach our history to our children." He paused. "We have kept our communication with them to a minimum in the centuries since the loss of my world. It was evident that the Tok'ra's journeys to and from Fyntani were tracked by Ra; that these revealed the location of our home and set its annihilation into motion." Tears stood in his eyes, unfalling. "We would not put our children to risk again."

"Of course not." Daniel sifted through images of children, families, of Tymon's furry-eared pet, his oldest sister, Zhiina's, long black hair, puddled beneath her crushed skull. "Your humans are very precious to you." Unlike the Goa'uld who gathered humans as labor, as guinea pigs, or as slaves living lives of torture and despair without a trace of hope or any promise for the future, the Tok'ra cherished humans, guarded them.

Tymon nodded. "Yes. They are more truly our children than any genetic bond can create."

Children. That explained a lot. To be loved and guarded, protected from knowledge that might hurt them, or which they simply weren't ready for. "Before your blending," Daniel hesitated, searching for words. "You always believed that _just_ being human was not enough. That you were meant for something more, something greater."

"Yes." Tymon squeezed Daniel's hand, smiling. "Did I not sense a similar desire – a belief within your own soul, Daniel? That you have some purpose, some greater role to play in the universe?"

"I-" He wanted to deny it, to distance his own less than humble certainty that he had something to give, something only he could contribute, from the Tok'ra's conviction that an unblended human was less than whole.

Tymon stepped closer. "Do not deny it, Daniel. I have glimpsed your heart and tasted the richness of your mind. You have been given great gifts, and have studied long to hone them into proper offerings for the world you inhabit." One hand rose to cup Daniel's cheek, to hold his gaze steady. "Offerings for a people who reject you, who do not open their arms and their minds gratefully to receive such a one as you."

Daniel couldn't move, captured by the warmth in this man's voice, the understanding reflected in his eyes. The dark well of loneliness yawned within him, hungry for words, for promises, for connection. For someone to really understand.

"I am truly sorry for the fear, for the wall of distrust I built between us with our merging. But, I am not sorry that I was able, even for a moment, to realize the depth of your need, of your yearning to learn, to grow, to make a difference. And your burning ache to belong."

Frowning, Daniel shook his head. "No. You make me sound like a child."

Tymon's thumb caressed his cheekbone. "Is that such a terrible thing, Daniel? To know that one does not know is often the beginning of wisdom. To be guided by one who is older, who has many lifetimes of study and experience behind him – this is the way of learning. Of sharing."

Daniel's first impulse was to pull away, his fiercely guarded independence surging forward, trying to wrestle control from his emotions. The struggle must have been obvious – on his face, in his body language – but Tymon would not relent, would not step away. "Tymon-"

"No, Daniel. Do not ask me to believe that you wish to be forever alone, forever silenced by those who claim to know better."

"It's not like that." His voice was low and rough, barely audible in the silent tunnel. "I'm just one guy – I can't claim to be special, to know more-"

The Tok'ra's head twisted back and forth in denial before Daniel could finish. "Speaker for dead cultures, languages few on your world have ever seen let alone spoken. He who killed Ra, who led slaves to revolution against their gods, who has died many deaths and borne much pain to continue to search out those in danger from alien enemies, breaking chains of ignorance and subjugation. Opener of your Stargate, voice of reason and conscience among those who seek only weapons. One who welcomes an alien – the Jaffa First Prime who stole your beloved – as your brother, and a Tok'ra as your friend. Daniel – you _are_ special."

He closed his eyes, blinding himself to Tymon's closeness, ignoring his touch, the scent of his breath on Daniel's face. Emotions welled – ate away at his resolve, his stubborn insistence on being 'fine,' of treasuring his solitude. Daniel Jackson. Fatherless. Motherless. Standing on his own against the winds of calamity and change that circled him like an Abydonian sandstorm.

Daniel had made his own way in a world bound and determined to hurt him, to tear away everything – everyone – who cared, who loved him. And, since he was a child, he'd picked himself up, brushed himself off, and toddled on, staring into the future so he wouldn't risk a glance behind, wouldn't be reminded of death and loss and rejection. On to the next thing. Learn more. Study more. He'd welcomed new experiences, filled in the jagged holes in his psyche with new languages, new cultures, new people.

He opened his eyes and stared into Tymon's clear, insistent gaze. Perhaps …

"What are you saying to me, Tymon?"

The Tok'ra's smile was incandescent. He took Daniel's hand and turned towards a nearby tunnel opening.

"Come."

oOo

"Come."

Hammond watched Jack step into his office, back straight, hands properly motionless at his sides. He wasn't in his Class As, but desert camo would have to do – George Hammond was more interested in closing this investigation and getting the colonel and Teal'c out to Vorash as soon as possible than in getting a recalcitrant – but repentant – Jack O'Neill into his monkey suit for this meeting. Hammond kept his expression blank, guarded, masked by superior rank and distance. Someone with Jack's experience wouldn't squirm – not noticeably – and his matching expression was only a little tighter than Hammond's own; tiny lines of impatience barely visible at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Hammond noticed the shadow of remorse and worry behind the man's deep-set eyes, but ignored it.

He stared, assessing, noting the way Jack kept to the proper three inches in front of his desk, eyes front, waiting. Hammond's gaze stripped away the veteran soldier's thick layer of professionalism, the protective coloration that had nothing to do with his camo and everything to do with Jack O'Neill's well-honed sense of responsibility, the stoic façade that hid deep-seated guilt that had prompted some of his darker moods and fueled his sometimes cutting insubordination, and the depth of love for those under his command that had brought his odd team together and, unfortunately, had tripped him up this time. Hammond – both as commanding officer and friend - gathered evidence, adding up the clues about Jack's intentions, the beliefs and motivations that stood firm and steady at his very heart. Chin high, eyes swirling with self-honesty, the colonel waited. And waited.

Finally, Hammond nodded, hands folded on top of the single folder on his desk. Jack was ready.

"I've read Doctor Frasier's report, _and_ Doctor Jackson's … summary. I've interviewed Teal'c, Colonel Ferretti, Lieutenant Colonel Dixon, Doctor Lee and Doctor Rothman. Now I'd like to hear from you, Colonel."

"No excuse, sir," Jack immediately replied.

An officer's answer. From an officer's heart. Hammond acknowledged the rightness of his 2IC's response with a pursing of his lips and a narrowing of his eyes. "No. There isn't." Not this time. Words of explanation would only do more harm, give the SGC's – Jack's and Hammond's – enemies in the political arena more fodder to fuel their accusations, to give them an excuse for a more intrusive, more crippling investigation. This had to end and it had to end now. He let the silence stretch out again, searching for signals that the ex-Special Ops Colonel, the matchless strategist and devoted head of his odd, idiosynchratic family was back and the love-sick schoolboy was gone forever. An officer must be above reproach, displaying no inkling of favoritism to his subordinates in the service. On his team, only Major Carter fell into that category. As long as she was a member of Jack's team she would be forever off limits. And they both knew it, and knew that their senseless flirtation would – had – nearly destroyed their team, Earth's finest defense against the Goa'uld threat, and the best hope of making true allies, forging friendships among races and cultures out beyond the 'gate.

Hammond was walking a tightrope – a knife's edge. He couldn't be seen to sweep this investigation under the rug, to take the glowing reports from the members of the SGC as gospel, to parse Teal'c's terse insistences into a bald-faced declaration that Jack was a fine commander and that the Jaffa had been witness to absolutely nothing that would smack of favoritism. It was Frasier's extensive medical report and Daniel Jackson's self-abasing account of the dynamics of SG-1 that would end this enquiry with no repercussions to either officer. And, if Hammond was to accept it, would, hopefully, only damage the scholar's own reputation with those who didn't work with him, who didn't know Daniel Jackson as a brave man, the kind of man who would stand at your shoulder and face down your most hated enemies – even if they turned out to be enemies within your own character. It choked Hammond, turned his stomach to lay the division, the near-breaking of SG-1 at Daniel's feet, but to punish Jack, to hurtle harsh words and harsher penalties on the man standing before him would show the Pentagon – and others - that the commander of the SGC believed Jack deserved punishment, and it would keep the door open for those others to get involved and do more damage. He could not, in good conscience, knowing the threats that they were facing on a daily basis, allow that.

"Major Carter will be reporting to the infirmary this afternoon for extensive testing. And Selmac has agreed to study the findings of Doctor Frasier's exams and assist her in determining when the effects of the armbands will be completely out of your systems." The general leaned forward, catching Jack's eye, forcing him to see to the truth that underlay his next words. "I expect to find that the brain altering chemicals from the armbands will have no further effect on you, Colonel. And that SG-1 will weather this experience as a unit; a cohesive, integrated unit made up of individuals with peculiar and particular strengths that you, as their commander, must use to the best of their abilities." No more divisions, Jack, he silently warned, no more rifts.

Jack's dark stare was honest, determined. Honorable. "Yes, sir." Simple words but layered with apology, with hurt at how he'd failed as a commander, as an officer. Hammond heard the spoken and the unspoken, and knew how much it stabbed at this man's heart that the punishment he so richly deserved would never come. Not from Hammond's hand. What he'd do to himself was another matter entirely.

One hand flat on the closed folder, Hammond sent up a quick prayer of thanks and allowed himself the first deep breath in days – weeks. "On Jacob and Selmac's recommendation, I'm ordering you and Teal'c to Vorash to assist Doctor Jackson with his study of the Tok'ra culture." He looked up in time to surprise the look of relief washing over Jack's face, of the way his body strained towards the door. Good. Daniel Jackson had been alone for too long, seemingly abandoned by his team, by his best friend. And Jacob's insight into what might be Per'sus' long-range plans for the scholar frankly scared the shit out of him. "I suggest that you speak to Doctor Jackson privately about the results of the medical tests and the armbands' effects on the … team dynamic," Hammond continued, his voice low and insistent, "as soon as possible." _You will not lose this man_, he commanded silently.

"I intend to, sir. Without delay." Jack nodded, eyes bleak.

"See that you do. Dismissed."

Jack's back disappeared out the door before the last syllable fell into the air.

George Hammond pushed himself to his feet, picked up the folder and dropped it into the back of the deepest drawer in his desk. He walked slowly, one foot carefully before the other, denying the urge to hurry, and found himself at the Control Room window just as Jack had finished shrugging into his TAC vest, settling his weapon firmly against his chest at Teal'c's side.

"Dial Vorash, Sergeant," he ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Hammond glanced down at the 'gate tech's obvious relief, his fingers hitting the 'dial' command on a computer poised with the Tok'ra world's address. The wormhole engaged with an echoing swish, its blue glow dancing over the 'gate room as if urging the two men fidgeting at the base of the ramp to move, to enter, to take that step.

The general cleared his throat and leaned down to the microphone. "Colonel. Teal'c. You have a go."

Boots clanged, the wormhole beckoning. "Godspeed," Hammond managed to add before the alien device swallowed them up in a hungry slurp. "Go get him, Jack," Hammond murmured.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Tymon led him around corners, down hallways that turned oblique angles from the main thoroughfares, and, finally, to a small ring room guarded by two wary Tok'ra armed with zats and short swords, their dark, intense stares quickly taking Daniel's measure before the High Councilor gestured them back. Still holding Daniel's hand, he slid his other arm around Daniel's waist, guiding him to stand within the narrow circle of the transport device and holding him against his side.

Daniel frowned, tensing, and Tymon pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. "Please, trust me," he murmured, the plea clearly meant only for Daniel's ears.

Daniel couldn't look away from the burning light in the Tokra's eyes. "Yes."

A nod to one of the guards brought the rings up around the two with a whining flash of sound and light. A brief moment later Daniel found himself staring into the fierce gaze of yet another guard, his zat pointed at the archaeologist's chest.

"Su anapa," Tymon commanded calmly, angling his body to stand between Daniel and the threat. "Doctor Jackson is my honored guest."

"Of course, High Councilor," the Tok'ra bent his head before closing his weapon and stepping back to his position beside the only door that Daniel had seen in the entire Tok'ra base. Narrow, barely six-feet high and only wide enough for one to carefully enter, the door looked heavy, solid; the entranceway to a castle or a stronghold.

Curious, Daniel searched his mind, through memories of discussions with Martouf, with Jacob, of all that he knew of Vorash and the Tok'ra's lives there. Then he dug further, deeper, into the images of a very young Tymon and a world very far away from this one. The three guards had been the largest Tok'ra he'd ever seen, better armed, clothed in the greys and sands he'd grown accustomed to, but the fabric was thicker, almost like leather, and fit closely around their bodies like armor. He'd seen their like before, beneath blue-purple skies where gold-winged gulls screeched and turned. They'd stood against the Cloister walls, eyes relentlessly scanning the horizon. And they'd died, taking hundreds of the invading Jaffa down with them. Daniel dropped his gaze to the guard's belly, brow furrowing.

"No, Daniel. The Tok'ra have no need for Jaffa."

Tymon's face was sorrowful, eyes emptied of the excitement he'd shown only moments before. "With no queens, we have very few young, only those who remain in our stasis banks, fertilized within their vats and brought to maturity only with great care and much loss. Egeria was killed before she could ensure that a queen of her bloodline remained to take up her mantle and conceive a great population of Tok'ra." His smile was bitter, resigned. Tymon and Per'sus – all of the Tok'ra – had lived with this knowledge all of their lives. The knowledge of the dwindling of their race, the built-in limitations of their existence. "A few Tok'ra symbiotes survive to adulthood in every generation, symbiotes healthy enough to blend with a host and take their places in our society."

He gestured towards the guard. "Hinnara is human." The man bowed slightly. "He and his brethren grew up within our few remaining Cloisters, educated and prepared to receive a symbiote, but, eventually passing the best age for blending with no symbiote available. He has chosen to remain with us, to receive additional training in fighting, in advanced arms and tactics." Tymon laid one hand on the human's shoulder, surprising a blush that bloomed bright red across Hinnara's wide face. "We are very grateful for his loyalty and sacrifice."

"My lord," the human finally stammered out, standing taller, muscles flexing at the kind words, his eyes shining with devotion.

As Tymon turned away to face the securely closed door, Daniel's mind put the bits and pieces together. Secrecy, caution, the fierce protectiveness of the guards - highly specialized guards - the unprecedented security measures – whatever was behind the door was not imprisoned, not feared or held restrained, bound up inside a jail cell. No, whatever it was – whoever it was – was held dear, more precious than any museum piece, more revered than a High Councilor. Held in higher regard than any scientist or tactician or politician, more valued than teltacs or technology or weapons, than immature or wounded symbiotes gently and lovingly tended within vats of nutrient solution or stasis pods.

Daniel had to know what was so important to this man who had become his friend.

Tymon pressed his palm against a flat screen fixed chest-high beside the door and then straightened, shoulders tightening, head held high. Daniel wasn't surprised to find it was Per'sus' voice that rang out in what sounded like Ancient Greek.

"'Mono sofos andras anagnorizo sofos andras.'"

The linguist's mind parsed the idiomatic phrasing, altered the vowels, and caught at a fleeting scrap of knowledge twisting by on the wind of memory. A monotone voice. A sweltering classroom in the New York summer. And a young sixteen year old orphan sitting by himself near the window, bangs drooping as if to shelter his wide, curious eyes and the way the ancient Greek language and philosophy fed his hungry soul. 'Only a wise man recognizes a wise man.' The words of Xenophanes – philosopher; satirist. Snippets and fragments of the ancient Ionian's poetry had barely survived to modern times on scraps of parchment, noted hurriedly on the walls of damp caves and crumbling temples like so much graffiti. Daniel remembered the suppositions about the man's travels and disappearance, how he was known to bitterly condemn the Greek notion that fickle, capricious, anthropomorphic gods ruled the cosmos and demanded the full fealty of their worshippers. It was assumed that he'd been imprisoned – tortured and executed in a live volcano - by those who were more interested in the approval of their gods than in the truth Xenophanes had spoken.

'_Ethiopians say that their gods are snub–nosed and black,  
Thracians that they are pale and red-haired._

_But mortals think that the gods are born  
and have the mortals' own clothes and voice and form.'_

Had the Greek been speaking of the Goa'uld? Of Cronos and Athena and Ba'al? Had Xenophanes been a Tok'ra?

A sensor must have picked up Per'sus' voice and instantly analyzed it, as, after a moment, the metal door ground to one side revealing a crystalline tunnel lighted here and there with dimly glowing blue/green sconces, the light wavering on the walls as if reflected from an undulating sea. The faint cry of gulls reached out to beckon Daniel on.

Enthusiasm shone again behind the earnest gaze Per'sus sent Daniel's direction, but the excitement was tamped down, banked to embers by a thick layer of apprehension. "Please," the Tok'ra repeated quietly, gesturing towards the open doorway.

Daniel nodded and stepped through the narrow opening into moist air that warmly caressed his skin, that tasted strongly of salt, and that reminded him, somehow, of home.

They walked slowly along the gently curving hallway as if Per'sus was both hesitant to reach their goal and, at the same time, relished the anticipation. Nothing about the situation raised any red flags for Daniel; traveling alone with an alien who shared body and mind with a parasitic symbiote, being led into hidden chambers beneath the alien base to a rendezvous with an unknown. Shouldn't he be concerned? Wary?

No. Not today. Today he was curious. Inquiring. Eager to take the next step on his path of understanding these beings, of learning, of using the arts of language and culture to slip further into their skins and live within their unique connections.

"Why humans, Per'sus?" His curiosity spawned the questions he hadn't needed to ask before.

The Tok'ra slowed even further. "There are a small number of unblended humans among us, Daniel, as you must have surmised when Hebron was so quickly available to receive Shan'auc's symbiote."

"In case of an emergency."

"Yes," Per'sus nodded. "It has not always been so. When many human Cloisters were strewn throughout the galaxy the Tok'ra would not think of putting humans to risk on a forward base." He huffed out a short sigh. "Times have changed. And even the most ancient and hidebound of us must change with them, don't you agree?"

Cultures – peoples – that refused to change stagnated. Any student of history knew that, knew that clinging to old ways, to dusty, unwieldy rituals and relics of past relationships made obsolete by time or discovery was the precursor to disaster. The bonds of friendships and mutual reliance fraying, stretched and pulled into new shapes by the gravity of change, must be allowed to settle naturally; could not be forced or manipulated. Or stopped. History 101. The historian, the anthropologist in him understood this, in fact, had made this philosophy his life's theme. But sometimes, Daniel admitted to himself, sometimes he still felt like he was sinking beneath the undertow of changes that left him alone on an empty shore.

"I do," Daniel finally agreed, letting the emotions of despair and loss swirl through him for a moment before they fell back like foam-edged waves. "Where some see unwanted, even frighteningly unrecognizable situations, I've always tried to find … opportunities."

Per'sus stopped in the middle of the hallway, just short of a blind corner, forcing Daniel to turn and step back towards him. The Tok'ra reached out to draw him closer, both hands gently gripping his upper arms. "Opportunities," he murmured with a smile. "Yes, Daniel. A twist in the pathway of one's life. Who knows what may come of taking that one small step."

Daniel searched his friend's face; silent; solemn. Per'sus was asking him something – seeking permission. Daniel wasn't sure he knew out to refuse the Tok'ra anything.

"Change may bring some pain, some struggle, but it is only through change, through loss and grief and growth that we can face the future."

Tymon's grey-green eyes were clear and bright; his words spoke a warning, and demanded an answer. Daniel blinked under their intense regard.

The strange tableau was broken by a deep, racking cough and a faint, nearly soundless plea from around the corner.

"Tymon, my boy. Is that you?"

oOo

"Colonel O'Neill. Teal'c. Please, follow me."

Jack sighed. They never could catch the damned Tok'ra unaware, could they? Always popping up out of the sand or lurking around the nearest stand of dead trees in their tripe-colored clothes ready to sashay over to 'welcome' them in their oh-so-superior way.

He exchanged a glance with Teal'c and kicked through the sand around the 'gate until the two fell into step with … Alvin? Arwen?

"High Councilor Per'sus was given to understand that no other members of SG-1 would be joining Doctor Jackson."

The criticism in the Tok'ra's tone was pretty obvious. Jack pasted on a mocking grin. "Surprise!"

Teal'c didn't bother to turn his head. "There have been … developments … on Earth which demand Daniel Jackson's attention."

The Tok'ra didn't miss a step, but Jack took a moment to assess his teammate. The calm Teal'c had wrapped around himself back on base still held, but Jack was pretty sure he could see the ticking of that muscle in his jaw that announced that the Jaffa's unresolved 'issues' with the Tok'ra were still … unresolved. No matter how much the guy meditated or distracted himself with worries about Daniel and SG-1, his girlfriend's death couldn't be sloughed off so easily. And if he came face to face with Tanith it was a sure bet who'd be walking away – and who'd be dead. That would cement relations with the Tok'ra, wouldn't it?

The Tok'ra led them across cold sand to the shadow of a particular dune much like any other in the barren landscape. Jack squinted into the lowering sun and checked the only physical markers he'd been able to pinpoint and burn into his memory – the Tok'ra covered up the damn rings with sand every single time. He nodded to himself. It was a good strategy, he supposed, if you were trying to hide your base from any random tourists taking a Sunday stroll through the Stargate, but from what he knew of Goa'uld technology, a little sand wouldn't stop the snake-heads from detecting the ring device, or from dropping in on the Tok'ra's top secret base once they found it.

Jack strolled confidently forward, planted himself in what he figured was the middle of the ring transporter, Teal'c at his side, and crossed his arms loosely on his weapon, eyebrows raised expectantly in the Tok'ra's direction.

A half second later the Tok'ra joined them and the rings rose up around them, sand falling around them like rain.

"Colonel O'Neill. It is a pleasure to see you so soon."

Oh, great. If it wasn't his favorite Tok'ra Barbie. Stalker Tok'ra Barbie. As if he didn't have enough problems. "Yeah, hi there," he muttered. "So," Jack bounced up and down on his toes, "where are ya hiding my archaeologist?"

oOo

His skin was translucent, creased in every direction as if folded over and over again to create a new design and then pressed flat with careful fingers. Daniel could hear the dry scrape of the old man's fingers as they danced crookedly in the air or beckoned them closer – it sounded like grasshopper wings. Dark eyes shifted restlessly beneath cloudy lenses, as if searching for a remembered light, a flower desperately yearning for the warmth of the sun. Clothed in loose saffron colored robes which fell in soft folds around his thin body, the man's skin was a pale olive; his white, curly hair shot through with its original black was still lush, ringing his head like a halo. Daniel glimpsed the edge of a round Tok'ra medical device attached to his thin chest.

The old man was half-reclining in a wide chair that floated two feet above the floor, every limb cushioned and suspended by a gel-like material encased in soft white fur. Behind him stood the familiar crystalline walls of the Tok'ra base lined with machinery that Daniel guessed included atmosphere controls as well as medical monitors. But, before him, everywhere that would be within the blind man's sight if, by some miracle, he glimpsed the world beyond himself, was the sea.

It was just as Daniel remembered it – just as Tymon remembered it. Green waves dancing in the light breeze washing along a dark brown beach undisturbed by footsteps. Gold-winged gulls cried in the distance, speeding to hurl themselves beneath the water to haul up their struggling prey. The horizon stretched out into the distance, fading to merge with the blue/purple sky and then, as Daniel followed it around, became the walls of the underground tunnel.

It was a projection. A hologram.

It was beautiful.

"Innano," Per'sus breathed, kneeling quickly beside the hovering chair and receiving his teacher's gentle touch as if it was a blessing. "I have brought a great gift." He smiled up at Daniel. "A human scholar who has come to us from the First World. His name is Daniel."

Innano. Daniel remembered him standing tall and strong in the classroom, guiding the Taghi through their lessons; nodding towards the view screen to display a problem, or to explain a strategy, or to present the great history of the Tok'ra race. He felt his small, child-sized hand gripped tightly as Goa'uld weapons burned great holes in the Cloister, he smelled the charred flesh of his classmates, tasted the coppery tang of their blood, felt it splash hotly across his skin. Innano had shielded his charge with his own body, had folded Tymon into a tiny laundry shaft, whispered directions to escape, and then reattached the grate to cover him before leading the enemy away. Innano had saved him, saved Tymon and the part of Daniel held motionless inside Tymon's memories, and had been captured himself. Tortured. Enslaved.

Buried there in Daniel's heart, in his fused memories and senses from that limited touch of Tymon's mind, was an abiding love for this man, a loyalty and devotion that blossomed within Daniel, blazing out across his nerves and muscles and lodging permanently within his soul.

"Ah. The First World." Innano's full lips curved. "'Daniel'. From the old language." The smile grew. "He stirs, my child."

Per'sus' eyes blazed. "Then this is truly a great day." His voice was choked with emotion, with hope and gratitude. He motioned Daniel closer.

Daniel went gladly, drawing closer to the dying man, dropping to one knee at Per'sus' side. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to convince himself that Innano still lived, but the purple bruises that decorated the thin arms told their own story of careless touches and the unthinking brush of fingers on delicate skin.

"Will he speak, Innano? Is he strong enough?" Per'sus urged gently.

The ancient man closed his eyes. "It has been so long, I am not sure he remembers how."

Questions – suspicions – broke through the love that swamped Daniel's senses like lightning strikes, there and gone again, but leaving bright impressions on his retinas. He blinked furiously, trying to get a grasp on this need to help, to shift away from the instant primal connection with the dying man before him and find his footing. "Who –" Daniel gasped, trying to swallow the choking knowledge that flooded him, sweeping him from his momentary foothold within his own mind. He knew who they were speaking of. The symbiote, near death, within Innano's failing body. Xenophanes.

Visions surged: Tymon's blending with Per'sus, their mutual vow to find and rescue their beloved mentor and teacher from Ra's prison. The decades of failure, of hopes dashed each and every time, the bitterness of victories achieved only to find that this man, this one man, was still beyond their reach. Until Ra's death.

Innano had been so broken when finally found, brought home, and healed as far as it was within their power. Xenophanes, himself repeatedly tortured, remained quiescent; silent, unable – unwilling – to take a new host to impart Innano's memories, to blend their shared lives with another, to preserve both scholars' histories, the knowledge and insight heaped up within them over centuries.

Daniel struggled, his own thoughts surging – gasping - to the surface to find that Tymon was holding him upright on his knees, the Tok'ra's face alight with joy.

"You see, Daniel? I knew – as soon as I touched the edge of your soul within the light of the healing device I knew that you would understand. That only such a one as you might draw Xenophanes back to us from his solitude. That he would sense your hunger for knowledge, your voracious desire to learn, and your unique connection with the ancient cultures of your world, and he would find the strength to blend once more."

"Blend …" Daniel managed one syllable, a question, a demand for explanation. A plea. His heart was racing, beating hard in his chest, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Fear. Excitement. Panic. Joy. Refusal. Acceptance. Emotions whirled, holding him hard within their grasping, clawing fingers.

Tymon was talking.

"You would have the entire history of the Tok'ra laid out before you. Of the Goa'uld. Such knowledge as many human lifetimes would not allow you." One hand cradled Daniel's cheek. "And you would never be without a friend, a soul mate, one who would listen, who would share your every thought and need and would never abandon you. Daniel," Tymon's eyes were bright with tears, "you would never be alone again."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Jack took another stroll around the conference room, stomach churning, nerves screaming, and his usually thin veneer of patience long since eroded by more-annoying-than-usual Tok'ra dawdling. Anise had led them here, casually asserting that Doctor Jackson and Per'sus were in a protracted dialogue and would be joining them whenever the hell they felt like it. Since then, the discussion had been as circular as the rut he was wearing in the floor with his big stompy boots. Which were about to be planted firmly in the closest Tok'ra's –

"Refreshments should be here shortly," Aldwin – yeah, Aldwin, that was it – assured them with his best simpering grin.

"Well you can just-" Jack started

"We require no refreshments at this time," Teal'c interrupted smoothly. "We _do_ require Daniel Jackson. As we have said."

"More than once," Jack added, tossing a snarl in his teammate's direction.

"I am sorry," Anise murmured, head bobbing in insincere apology, that same wide-eyed expression on her face as she'd had when she'd apologized about the whole 'armbands falling off in the middle of a mission to a heavily armed fortress' thing. Meaning it was totally rehearsed and completely false.

Treaty or no treaty, Jack was about to go all 'inferior weaponry' on their asses. From a great height.

Teal'c sure was having a better day in the 'patience' department. Go figure. "It is a matter of Daniel Jackson's health," the big guy intoned, all regal stature and inability to take no for an answer. "Surely the High Councilor would not wish to ignore a … risk … to Daniel Jackson's wellbeing."

"What is the nature of this risk?" Anise asked quickly.

Now she was interested; now that there might be the slightest risk to herself – themself – themselves. Jack's frustration fueled his anger.

The Jaffa sideswiped Jack again, standing up to put his bulk between him and the most annoying Tok'ra on the planet just as Jack turned to lay into her. "We would be happy to discuss it with you as you escort us to Daniel Jackson's location."

Nice. The big guy's encouraging posture practically demanded that Anise stand up and get on with it. Jack was going to have to practice that one.

"Very well."

Oh, that was not a happy tone, Jack smirked to himself. And, judging by the look she shared with old Aldwin, somebody was likely to be taken to the woodshed at the end of this little journey. Wasn't that too bad. Couldn't happen to a nicer gal.

oOo

Was this his future?

Daniel was held speechless, motionless, within the aura of Per'sus' sincerity. A soul deep love for the dying Tok'ra coupled with an instinctive need to learn, to experience the ancient cultures he'd immersed himself within for his entire life ignited a fire in Daniel's heart. An "opportunity" – that was a paltry understatement for what Per'sus was offering. This would be more than a change; it would be a fundamental alteration in Daniel's very being. Nothing would ever be the same.

"You have frightened the man, Per'sus."

Daniel blinked and the spell was broken. One thumb caressed his cheekbone and Per'sus' eyes smiled.

"Daniel is not frightened, my dear one. On the contrary, I've come to understand that this silent aspect means that he is thinking."

Daniel couldn't argue with that – he felt as if his mind and heart were being pulled in a hundred different directions. He shook his head but the thoughts, the memories and scenes – his and the Tok'ra's – wouldn't settle into any kind of cohesion, into any pattern that led Daniel to a decision. They flitted past, starting and stopping, pausing on unlikely visions – real and imagined. Of Jacob Carter's renewed health and vigor and the invaluable help he'd been to the SGC. Of Martouf's strength and resilience, Anise's wealth of knowledge, and how each Tok'ra was treasured for his or her own particular gifts and talents, cherished as a brother or sister within a rapidly dwindling family.

The glimpses he'd been given of a blended life, the unbelievable intimacy of merging with another, promising unconditional love and acceptance and an end – a decisive, unequivocal end – to the persistent tug of loneliness were heady and strong.

"Yes, my friend. You have felt just the briefest touch of the truth of a blended life. The merest brush of fingers, the smallest glance that precedes a clasp of hands, a joining of bodies, a union so much more profound than anything within your human experience. Synainisi ek psychi."

Daniel realized partway through Per'sus' speech that he was speaking Greek, the language of philosophy, of poetry. The words had become so simple in English, so trite. 'A meeting minds,' synonymous with agreement. But, within the original language it translated to something so much deeper that tasted of commitment and loyalty, an agreement so overpowering that it would last a lifetime and beyond - 'a consent of souls.'

"Your life opens, the way before you now so much richer, Daniel. With ample time for study, for learning, for the exploration of culture and history that you have been denied by physical limitations and the restrictive bindings of your military overseers." Per'sus continued, voice soft and compelling, infinitely compassionate. "With Xenophanes to guide you, with the memories of a dozen hosts to deepen your understanding of everything around you," he shook his head, "the short years of your human life will become one drop within the fountain of your life's story."

Daniel frowned. The few memories he held dear, of his mother's face, his father's voice, flashed before his inner eye. Borrowed families who welcomed an orphan boy with open arms of love or closed fists of jealousy. The bitter victories and abject failures of his education. Sarah. Steven. Dr. Jordan. Intimate moments caught up in the warp of his mind's weaving, moments that had crafted Daniel's heart, had shaped it and molded it. A new life, a new beginning. Sha're. Skaara. Kasuf. A rigid military figure with eyes that reflected the death of a soul – and then the spark, the slow burn of life and friendship that had changed Colonel Jack O'Neill into Daniel's best friend.

And then – loss. Emptiness. But that had shaped him, too.

All that – people, places, scents and textures – reduced to insignificance? Sha're's beauty, her resilient spirit and fierce determination, lost among the memories of so many lost before? The remembered warmth of Jack's hugs, his knowing smirk as they shared a joke, Sam's brilliance – within and without, the strong arm of Teal'c on Daniel's shoulder – suddenly trivial?

He struggled to focus on the man still kneeling so close, holding onto him with gentle intensity.

"I don't-"

"Tymon, my child, leave Daniel with me a while."

The papery thin voice cut off whatever it was Daniel was going to say, whatever questions or concerns or arguments his mind was throwing up.

The Tok'ra's eyebrows twitched and Daniel knew Per'sus would have frowned, would have refused to let go his tenacious hold on Daniel – body and mind and imagination - but he could not. Heeding that voice, the voice of his mentor, was permanently etched into Per'sus' behavior. He couldn't fight it.

It was Tymon who stood, drawing Daniel to his feet with him. The Tok'ra leaned over the reclining figure, hands curving the air before him as if he would touch, grasp a hand, or stroke a wrinkled forehead. Innano smiled up at him, somehow sensing the halted movements, taking the intention as action, and then he laboriously lifted one hand.

"Allow me some time with this young man, my child. After all, it is he and I who will choose." The clouded eyes seemed to pierce all of the unspoken arguments that leapt to the High Councilor's lips. "Not you."

Tymon closed his eyes and bowed his head, standing silently a moment at the ancient man's bedside. Finally, he turned, eyes bright, his smile not quite as broad as before. "Daniel." All of the Tok'ra's hopes and worries, his desperation, fear, and confidence, was summed up in that one word.

Daniel's mouth opened and closed, unable to answer the faith shining out from the Tok'ra's eyes.

"Wait for us above, Tymon," Innano added, patiently, lovingly - commanding. The voice of a teacher.

Tymon nodded. "I will. And I will welcome whoever joins me there with a full heart." He moved towards the exit, the fingers of one hand tangling with Daniel's for a heartbeat as he brushed past.

Daniel waited until the distant sound of transport rings faded, his eyes on the false horizon. Standing here, deep with the Tok'ra base, beneath layers of rock and soil, his mind fought with the image of sea and sky, wanting to believe in the promise of cool waves and soft sand, of a refreshing spray of water only a moment away. Part of him wanted to let go, to take off his shoes and socks and splash in the gentle surf, to open his arms to a warm sun and a future that tasted of new beginnings and rebirth, of a new Daniel Jackson who could shelve past losses neatly in among so many others, who could feel the drift of centuries like the tide within his blood.

The truth skittered across his mind, unable to take hold. Daniel knew he stood deep underground, that technology alone gave this room light and heat, that the breeze was carefully calculated, the moisture in the air cleverly mimicking an ocean mist. It was a well-honed fantasy. He had only to turn, to put the illusion at his back and see the wide array of machines that kept it going, that helped an ancient being stay alive after age and injury had broken him to see the truth.

Here were his choices laid out before him. A future of limitless horizons that he could taste and smell but that might make all of his memories, all those things that made up the distinct person of Daniel Jackson into so many fleeting remembrances; fantasies of his mind. Or, to look backward, to face the facts of his solitary existence and to embrace technology as the means to prolong life – the life of Earth and the SGC. Cold and lifeless or warmth and light. Belonging or separation.

"It is a beautiful illusion."

It took a moment for Daniel to realize the words were not his. He turned, surprised to find that the feeble old man had half-risen, the chair beneath him angling to bring his head up, to tip him gently forward, feet towards the ground. Daniel shifted his weight to help, hands reaching out, until he registered the change in expression, the fierce resolve underlying the gentle manner, and realized the voice, still soft, was now the doubled voice of a symbiote.

"Xenophanes."

The ancient man slowly straightened, the chair behind him shifting with his body movements until it held him half-standing, his back still curved painfully, limbs trembling with strain, but his head held high. The eyes were still clouded with thick white mist, but the Tok'ra's gaze was locked firmly on Daniel's face.

"I am he." There was a regality in every movement, an ancient, grave passion etched into the antiquated Greek language. "Per'sus has constructed an elaborate world, a beautiful false memory within which he has placed us. We wonder if it provides more a solace for his own soul than any benefit to us."

The small slight towards Daniel's Tok'ra friend rankled. "He seems to genuinely care for you."

"Yes. And I for him." He drew in a long, slow breath, a smile teasing his lips, face angled upward to feel the sun, bare feet just touching the cool sand. "Ah, to touch, to taste – it has been so long."

Daniel waited. Innano had said that it had been a long time since Xenophanes had come to the surface. Was it an eagerness to blend with Daniel or something else that brought him out, that gave him control of a body so far gone into waste and disease?

The ancient Tok'ra's unseeing eyes found Daniel again. "I have focused inward for many years, Daniel; shoring up my host's fading strength, giving him time, life without debilitating pain, shielding his mind from the worst memories of hurt and torture." The seamed face crumpled in remembered agony. "A true symbiosis, a true blending, takes from each, gives to each. We have not had that in many years."

"Because of your injuries?" Daniel asked.

"Illness. Injury. Age. We have little to give to one another physically. Not enough strength in either to heal what our enemies have stolen." The stiff neck may have eased a few millimeters, the labored breathing quieted. "I have done what I can. Hidden what I must."

Daniel planted his feet at the edge of the sand, where illusion met reality, and faced the ancient Greek. "And now?"

The sigh that answered him spoke of thousands of years of life and love and loss, of genuine grief and wisdom garnered from many lifetimes. "Now I find that I have held us separate for so long, so that I might spare my Innano, my host, that I fade, becoming less every day, taking knowledge and experience into the darkness."

"It is not the Tok'ra way." Everything Daniel had learned, everything he'd felt during his short merging with Per'sus and Tymon, every piece of evidence or hint of knowledge gleaned from their lives on Vorash, the structure of their society told him this. The Tok'ra did not live alone – ever – in any way.

"No, it is not." Profound sadness wrapped the Tok'ra's words in unshed tears.

Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets. "Tymon has brought hosts for you before."

"He has. Strong ones." Xenophanes bowed his head. "Before this I did not listen to his pleas, nor heed his wishes."

Swallowing fear, Daniel moved closer. "And now?"

The fog-bound gaze lifted to Daniel's face, one hand reaching out to beckon him closer. "And now … I am reminded of a truth that the youngest Tok'ra child knows deep within his soul: that this half-life I have chosen for us both is no life at all."

oOo

"I am sorry, Colonel, but I must ask you to wait here."

Jack's eyes narrowed dangerously as he took in the short tunnel ending in a cramped transport room and the two burly guards - armed with swords for crying out loud - eying him up in the same way. It was a ring room – that much was obvious. But where would it take them – where had it taken Daniel?

"I … don't think so," he drawled, automatically checking to see that Teal'c was flanking him. Space was at a premium – with no cover to speak of except Tok'ra Barbie. He flexed his fingers, eyes glued to the guard on the left.

Anise turned back to face him. "No one is permitted within the sanctuary but the High Councilor and his guests."

Sanctuary, huh? Sounded like something Daniel wouldn't be able to resist. And that meant Jack was going to have to get in there and drag him out by his boots. "Oh, I'm a guest – aren't I? I mean, I'm just as much of a guest as Dan –"

"What is this 'sanctuary'?" Teal'c interrupted.

Anise looked down her nose at him which, from her height, was pretty dang impressive. Jack bet she got lots of practice. "That is not your concern."

"Listen," Jack cut in. "I don't really care. What I want is Daniel Jackson," he pointed to the floor at his feet, "right here, right now, no more delays. If you can't do that, things are gonna get ugly, lady."

Teal'c snarled.

"Uglier," Jack promised.

Somewhere between the two guards a light flashed and they separated, moving quickly to the sides, the droning hum of the ring device filling the small chamber. A moment later the rings fell down within the floor and the Tok'ra High Councilor stood before them. Alone.

"Colonel O'Neill. Teal'c. To what do we owe the honor?" Per'sus wiped the startled look off his face in less than a heartbeat, but Jack saw through his control, noticing the pale skin, the white-knuckled fists, and the silvery remnants of tears on his cheeks.

Jack surged forward, connecting with his target before anyone else could move. One hand clenched in the fabric of the High Councilor's shirt, the other locked on his wrist, he propelled Per'sus backward against the wall, his head hitting with a solid thunk. Pressing hard against the Tok'ra's superior strength, he leaned in, forearm across the guy's throat, knee in his groin, and he shoved his face in close, Jacob's warnings ringing in his ears. "Where the hell is Daniel? What did you do with him?"

The scuffling behind him resolved into grunts of pain, one firing of a zat, and the choked off cry of a female Tok'ra.

And then the voice of his teammate. "Make haste, O'Neill. They may have alerted others."

"There is no need for this show of force, Colonel," Per'sus hissed, eyes glowing gold in his reddened face. "Are we not allies?"

"Are we? Well I'll be happy to apologize later if and when you give me back my archaeologist in the exact same shape he was in when you got him!"

"And what shape was that?" the Tok'ra bit back at him, all of his haughty diplomacy replaced with snapping rage. "Abandoned by his friends? Hurt? Alone?"

"You son of a bitch," Jack managed to ground out between clenched teeth, shifting his arm to cut off the Tok'ra air supply. "You manipulative bastard. So help me, if you've-"

Per'sus' razor-edged smile unnerved Jack just enough so the Tok'ra could turn his head, gulp in a breath, and reply. "If I've what? Given him a reason to hope? A future he could have hardly imagined? Health and long life and access to cultures he's never seen before?" His laugh ran jagged icicles up and down Jack's spine. "It's too late, Colonel. Go back to your mate. Daniel is not alone anymore."

The faint hum alerted him before Teal'c's shouted warning and Jack jerked his prisoner to one side, beyond the ring platform's boundary. He shifted to hold the now quiet Tok'ra against his chest, one arm around his neck, the other reaching out to catch the zat Teal'c tossed to him. Jack's heart pounded, adrenaline surging thick and fast, prodded by guilt, by gut clenching fear, urging him to fight, to tear this bastard to pieces, to hurl impotent curses into the air. No. He had to be in time. He had to.

Light flashed and the rings dropped away to reveal his teammate. His friend.

"Daniel?"

Per'sus cry was as loud with joy as Jack's had been small with fear. "Xenophanes!"


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Blue eyes searched Jack's face for a brief, breath-stealing moment and then moved on, unmoved, settling on Per'sus, the Tok'ra still held tightly in Jack's grip. Clasped hands rose to halt at Daniel's chest, forehead, and lips in some sort of ritual movement, his skin bleached to an inhuman paleness. "_Sighno mi_," he breathed.

An iron fist squeezed Jack's heart. A thick coating of ice drenched him, hardening around the sudden well of loss and the burning ache of defeat that yawned inside him. No. No. The ice froze his expression into a rictus of sternness, of emotionless distance. It was the only way he could live within this moment, could face this … thing … that had stolen his friend before he could reach him, before he could explain. A wail that grew to a deafening, world-filling howl rattled the edges of the inescapable cage around his heart, echoing ceaselessly. Jack knew it would never stop.

Under Jack's hands, the Tok'ra was shivering with excitement, straining forward against his hold. Jack found his hand closing over its throat, tightening, poised to crush its windpipe, fingers digging unmercifully into its skin. He could kill it – should kill it. Couldn't think of a single good reason not to.

"O'Neill. You must stop."

Jack turned his head toward Teal'c's declaration, but his gaze remained fixed on solemn blue eyes, on the familiar planes of Daniel's face, the stiff line of hunched shoulders beneath his baggy fatigues.

A choked gasp from the alien within his grasp, the stumbling half-step forward Per'sus managed, hauling Jack with him by sheer strength, broke his concentration and Jack felt his fingers slip – just enough.

"No. No." Almost a sob, torn from a throat closed by grief, by loss. Disbelief – denial – a lifetime of anguish - two short syllables were enough to describe the pain of losing someone closer than a brother, someone who had depended on you, relied on your promises of protection and loyalty. Someone he had so utterly failed.

The ice cracked; a crystalline mist seemed to float out into the air, freezing the scene into perfect timelessness as Jack's thoughts stuttered, lurched, and then raced to catch up with a hot rush of clarity when he realized those stricken words weren't his. His hands fell away from the Tok'ra, only to reach out again to steady the pale, shaking man, to keep him from falling.

Daniel moved to meet them, taking Per'sus' hands in his. "I'm sorry, Tymon. I'm so sorry."

A single voice. Daniel's voice. Still so pale, so distant, but every inch Jack's frustrating, sincere, compassionate friend. Speaking to the host. Connecting. Stepping in to heal wounds and soothe hurts just like he always did. Jack's inner wailing turned to ragged shouts of triumph.

The Tok'ra shook his head, drawing away from Jack's touch, straightening, visibly shoring up his own inner shields, closing off a grief-stricken soul with walls that were at least as thick and tall as Jack O'Neill's. Burying his shattered hope. Jacob had spoken of the High Councilor's deepest desire, of his single-minded focus on restoring his past, of saving that one life that meant the most to him. For the moment, Jack felt a reluctant camaraderie with alien; the first feeling of connection he'd ever had with any Tok'ra except Jacob.

"He is gone?" The High Councilor whispered.

Daniel flashed a sad smile. "No. He's waiting. He wants to talk with you." Jack's jaw clenched as he watched blue eyes close against a threatening moisture. "He wants to say goodbye."

A choking laugh broke from the Tok'ra's whitened lips. His bleak expression was painful to watch, bitterness and defeat turning his noble features into carved marble. "Daniel."

"Tymon. Please. I don't-"

A familiar stab of anger tried to hurl sharp words from Jack's mouth, seared into nerves and muscles, prodding him to step in, to grab Daniel and shake him, to drag him away from this guy and slap some reason into him. They were still standing on the brink of something here, over an abyss of Jack's own making. One false step and Daniel could still fall. He clamped his mouth shut and stepped back, watching, ready.

The Tok'ra's raised hand jerked Jack up on his toes, right to the verge of action. But it wasn't raised in anger or violence, didn't reach out to grasp or wrestle. It rose to touch Daniel's cheek, to stroke tenderly, and the look in Per'sus' – Tymon's? - eyes made Jack blink, frowning, tears gathered right at the back of his throat. He swallowed roughly.

"Shh," the Tok'ra breathed. "Daniel. I promised, did I not? That whoever greeted me here would be welcome." The words barely managed to twist their way out from the depth of the Tok'ra's disappointment, cutting off any more of Daniel's explanations or attempts at comfort as if he couldn't stand one more minute of the most well-meaning consolation. He leaned forward to touch his forehead with Daniel's. Jack nearly turned away at the intimacy of the gesture. "I will honor my promise."

Daniel closed his fingers around Per'sus' wrist as if to hold him in place. "Thank you."

_For what?_ Jack wanted to demand. For taking advantage of Daniel's pain? Of Jack's stupidity? For trying to tie Daniel's curiosity and his essential loneliness to the survival of an ancient Tok'ra? To draw him in with the possibilities of connection and hold him with the promise of discovery? Carefully cataloging the familiar little movements, the tenderness and affection between these two, Jack nodded, acknowledging that this Tok'ra – this alien – had stepped up when Jack had walked away, and had offered to fill the ugly void that Daniel believed was all that was left of SG-1. Manipulative? Strategic? Yeah, definitely. But that didn't make it all a lie.

The two moved away from each other, still joined at hand and wrist. Daniel's gaze flicked out towards Jack, raked over him as if he could read Jack's mind through his posture, the straining of his muscles, the twitching of his jaw. His next words convinced Jack that maybe he could.

"Thank you for your friendship, Tymon. For this … opportunity," Daniel's smile was honest, full of meaning. And meant only for the Tok'ra.

The Tok'ra's nod was almost regal, the red hand-print on his throat, tiny beads of blood already disappearing in the tiny half-moon shaped wounds left by Jack's nails unable to diminish his bearing in the least. "You will always be welcome here, Daniel. Always treated as a friend by the Tok'ra. By _us_." That simple word tasted of commitment; of love and compassion and belonging. Everything that Daniel needed right now. The High Councilor raised his chin and stared down his nose at Jack. "When you have need of us, we will be here."

Jack had no trouble hearing both the promise and the threat.

"But," Per'sus shifted his weight, untangling his hands from Daniel's with an apologetic smile, "I somehow sense that Colonel O'Neill and Teal'c have urgent business with you."

Jack's eyebrows jerked upward. Was that a joke? He allowed the first deep breath he'd taken in days and felt most of the adrenaline that had heaped up just beneath his skin drain away. Relief flooded him, sweeping out the last bits of fear and dread, and the sticky remnants of a fading, so familiar despair. Daniel was okay. Alive and himself. There were miles to go yet, barriers Jack needed to hurdle, truth Jack needed to speak. Yeah, there was a lot more to do, but, for now, this was good enough.

Daniel's confused expression as he took in the just now stirring Tok'ra guards, Anise, sprawled in the doorway in an ungraceful heap, and Teal'c poised nearby at the small chamber's entrance, zat aimed at the approaching mass of armed guards nearly made Jack laugh. He stepped forward.

"Yeah, about that…"

Per'sus quickly gestured the guards back and straightened his tunic. "No need for apologies, Colonel."

Well, that was good, Jack thought to himself, 'cause he wasn't about to give one. Even if the Tok'ra had just lost his last best chance to blend his old friend with Jack's teammate, even if he was about to lose someone as close to his heart as Daniel was to Jack's, it would be a cold day on Netu when Jack apologized for doing everything in his power to get to Daniel's side. He closed the zat and handed it to the pissed off guard on his right before turning to stare back at the High Councilor, eyes flat, arms crossed over his chest.

"I … regret our strong words, Colonel," the suddenly doubled voice of the symbiote had Jack standing taller, "and the animosity this situation has caused between us. Poor assumptions seem to have been made on both sides."

"Huh." Jack searched Daniel's pinched face, the way his gaze slid away from Jack's and his arms moved into a slightly more defensive copy of Jack's own posture. He studied Per'sus' narrowed eyes, his shuttered expression, and remembered Hammond's insistence that Jack try not to cause an interplanetary incident or completely void the treaty they'd just hammered out. "Guess so," he finally admitted. It was easy for Jack to be all diplomatic now that Per'sus had lost his chance to turn Daniel into the newest incarnation of his old pal. Easier. But forgiving and forgetting weren't in the cards right now. Or, probably, ever.

Orders given, Anise collected and carried away, the Tok'ra guards re-armed and standing at attention, Per'sus turned back to Daniel.

"I must leave you for a time, Daniel. If it is truly to be Innano's last few hours …"

"Of course. Tell Xenophanes-" Daniel paused, forehead creased, strangely intent. "Tell him I will think about his words." His eyes blazed with a kind of unwavering passion – a focus honed down to the sharpest point. Jack hadn't seen that kind of strength in his teammate in … far too long. And that realization hit Jack right in the gut. What 'words' had an ancient Tok'ra symbiote whispered in his friend's ear?

Per'sus frowned and then nodded, accepting Daniel's declaration as if it was an oath, an unyielding promise. "He was always the wisest among us, Daniel. I pray his wisdom will lead you to what you truly desire."

The Tok'ra touched Daniel's sleeve possessively and Jack tried not to bristle. "I hope to find you among us when I return. There is much still to discuss, to learn and teach one another."

Daniel stole a glance at Jack's face, at Teal'c's rigid stance and calmly unyielding stare. "I hope so, too, Per'sus. But-"

"-but your time is not your own," Per'sus added.

"No," Daniel dipped his head in reluctant agreement, no trace of humor in his gaze.

Jack kept his mouth closed.

"Then, if you must leave while I am gone, I ask that you return to us when you can, when other demands upon your time recede and you search for a place of peace, of learning." The Tok'ra glanced at Jack before turning a devastating smile in Daniel's direction. "When you seek a deeper connection."

Over Jack's dead body. He moved closer to his teammate, noting with a quirk of his lips that Teal'c immediately moved to flank Daniel on the other side. Per'sus stepped calmly into the small ring transporter and nodded towards a guard - the one with the darkened skin on his cheekbone that promised to become a nice sized bruise. The three members of SG-1 stood watching as the rings carried the Tok'ra leader away in a flash of light and sound.

He could feel Daniel's stiffness beside him, the way he held himself motionless as if afraid of intruding into either man's space. And suddenly Jack didn't know what to say.

"It is good to see you once again, Daniel Jackson."

Luckily he didn't have to.

Teal'c had done the reaching out, one hand splayed on Daniel's shoulder, turning the young man towards him. The Jaffa's eyes held a wealth of meaning, communicated a whole lot more than his simple words. However much Daniel was hurting, no matter if the distance between those two erupted from the end of Teal'c's staff weapon, or from a stubborn, Jaffa-shaped back turned on Daniel's best attempts at compassion; however long it took him to step up, to admit his faults and do everything he could to make it right between them, Teal'c would always reach out a hand towards Daniel.

And Daniel would never fail to take it.

"Teal'c, I haven't been gone that long." Daniel stared fiercely into Teal'c's eyes, one hand hooking onto the Jaffa's wrist, echoing his recent connection with the Tok'ra.

"It seemed as if you were, and that, perhaps, I may never get the opportunity to speak with you, as your true self, again."

As always, some kind of understanding passed between them - unspoken apologies, instinctual comprehension nailing that unlikely friendship back into place. Jack sighed, shaking his head back and forth. Lucky Jaffa.

When Daniel's brows rose and he turned to glance quickly at Jack, Jack shrugged, hands in his pockets. "What he said."

Daniel's pinched expression and the tight line of his mouth were perfect indicators of Jack's abject failure. "Okay. How did you-"

Jack twisted his lips and looked pointedly around the chamber. "How 'bout we head up top and take a walk? These tunnels always give me a headache," he added, rubbing one hand across his forehead.

"Jack, you work inside a mountain," Daniel sighed impatiently.

"And yet." He gestured towards the hall where Aldwin stood fidgeting, obviously not quite sure what to do with the humans who had the nerve to attack the Tok'ra High Councilor and then get an immediate royal pardon. As Daniel turned to move Jack fell in beside him and couldn't resist the opportunity to put one arm around his friend's shoulders, his hand gripping Daniel's neck for just a moment.

Daniel didn't exactly flinch away from him, didn't shrug Jack off or move out from under his arm, but the twitch of his muscles and the near stumbling of his steps was enough of a reaction to communicate his surprise. Jack held on for just a second before he let his arm drop away and allowed the quiet camaraderie, the matching rhythm of their steps, and the occasional brush of shoulders begin to tie up the frayed bonds of their friendship. Maybe Daniel had forgotten what Jack's friendship felt like – and maybe that was completely Jack's fault. It was definitely time to remind him.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The Tok'ra allowed them access to the surface, rigidly polite to Jack and Teal'c, still friendly and familiar with Daniel. Daniel nodded to Aldwin, thanked the ring operators, and stepped out beneath the weak sun and cold breeze of the desert planet, thick sand cushioning the soles of his boots, to stand between his teammates.

They paced silently, creating a sense of distance between the three humans and the Tok'ra guards who followed. Jack was scanning the scrubby trees and bushes that gathered in untidy bunches along their route as if they might hide eavesdropping enemies, every once in a while he'd kick at the sand, at a stray rock, or a branch that apparently looked shifty; Teal'c kept his eyes on the horizon, hands behind his back, calm, relaxed – a man without mission or agenda.

Beneath the sudden camaraderie, Daniel felt the strain, the familiar push and pull of pieces that didn't quite fit. Something had changed - something besides himself - but he didn't know what. And he had changed. After only a day or so away from base, from home, his eyes opened by an unexpected merging with a Tok'ra's memories and the centuries-old wisdom of a dying alien, and Daniel had awakened to the half-life he'd been living. A shock-wave of anger had shot through him; anger at himself, at his easy acceptance of his dismissal, at his dull, resigned tolerance of the behavior of his supposedly best friends. Since when did Daniel Jackson give up without a fight? Without any effort to dig in his heels and resist what he knew to be wrong?

He shook his head, lips tightening. Maybe writing that report had been the right thing to do, the right way to protect the people he'd come to see as his family, but it had also smacked of surrender, of running away. His shoulders twitched in a stifled shrug. Reaching out to Teal'c, to Janet or Ferretti – or anyone - for help hadn't even occurred to him, and opening up to Jack or Sam, calling them on their crap, would have opened his own psyche to more pain, more loss. Daniel'd never been good at being vulnerable. Licking his wounds, he'd scurried off to the Tok'ra, to Per'sus and Tymon's seemingly honest friendship and hidden agenda. The enticement of a new connection without any of the emotional subtext or buried pitfalls of his inconstant relationships with his teammates had seemed so much more appealing. Easier. Friendship untainted by any history or demands or commitments. He should know better. These past few years had taught Daniel that true friendship wasn't tied up in neat packages, it wasn't clean and fresh and easy. No, true friendship made harsh demands and was drenched with blood, sweat, and tears. It was shaped like an alien warrior who had stolen your wife and a hard-assed military prick who was closer than a brother. True friendship was hard.

"I will leave you now."

Daniel jerked his head up in time to see Teal'c stride off towards a low ridge in the distance. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, frowning, when he heard the low chuckle from the man beside him.

"One thing I'll say for Teal'c: subtlety is not his forte." Jack was shaking his head, an amused grin lightening his features. He pointed a cocked finger at their retreating teammate's back. "That is Jaffa for, 'you guys need to talk.'"

Daniel searched Jack's face. "He's right – we do."

Jack tilted his head to one side and looked Daniel up and down. "Yes. Indeed."

Daniel waited, the shame and self-anger he'd been battling quickly morphing into frustration. "Okay. Fine. How's this for an opening: Where's Sam?"

"Good question." Jack took off his cap and crushed it between his hands. "Carter and her dad are helping Frasier get a handle on the residual effects of those damned Aztec armbands."

"Atonik," Daniel corrected unconsciously. "Wait – what 'residual effects'?"

"Oh, you know, extra hormonal crap and wacky brain dope – all that stuff that made us act like spoiled teenagers at a rave. Turned out it's still messing with us." Jack's smile was thin and tight.

Hands on his hips, Daniel ground his teeth together. "How-"

"-yeah," Jack interrupted, "convenient, huh?"

The colonel's dark eyes bored into Daniel – open windows into the naturally guarded man's soul. Daniel stared, sharp words that rode the leading edge of his anger dropping away. Jack withstood Daniel's scrutiny silently, his gaze never swerving from where Daniel held it, no carefully worded sarcasm deflecting his intense focus or redirecting Daniel towards something less painful, less personal.

Daniel seemed to slip deeper and deeper behind Jack's barriers, as if he was drifting back in time to quiet campfire conversations and nights spent cradling warming beers and gazing up at the stars, comparing losses and shoring up a friendship forged and strengthened by the very differences that ate at them. They hadn't often needed words, could finish each other's thoughts as they were forming. The familiar exasperated warmth kindled a flame in the center of Daniel's being, a flame buried under cold ash heaped up by both of them. Wherever Jack's friendship had been, however it had been disguised or hidden away, wherever it had been aimed, the 'foundations' were still there. And, Daniel sensed, suddenly anxious, that it wouldn't take much to get it going again.

His lips twisted; the bitter taste of rejection still sharp. No matter how welcome their connection, no matter how long it had been since Jack had let him in like this, Daniel still had to know, had to ask the questions and demand answers. It would more than likely hurt them both to put it all into words, but to grin and joke and shake it off would end up hurting them far more deeply.

"'Convenient.' What does that mean, Jack?"

Jack's sigh communicated his own acceptance, his own admission that this conversation couldn't be avoided. "It means that I'm one lucky bastard, Daniel. Lucky that Frasier found an explanation that will give the brass an excuse to overlook mine and Carter's utter stupidity."

Daniel blinked, his mind pulling the words apart to look for the meaning beneath the surface. Before he'd gotten too far, Jack raised one hand between them as if pleading for silence, for time to finish. Daniel nodded, frowning.

"Finding out the medical stuff is real, that our brains really are not hitting on all cylinders, that was damned lucky, too." He shook one raised finger at Daniel, eyebrows twitching, clearly not finished. "But, most importantly, I'm lucky to have a friend who is willing to put himself out there and try to cover my ass at his own expense." He paused, thinking. "Especially when I've been a pretty crappy friend to him. Lately." Jack seemed to go back over what he'd just said, squinted slightly, and then sighed, shrugging his shoulders.

Daniel laughed quietly. Who else could fit an entire conversation into a few body movements?

"So … you and Sam?"

Jack cleared his throat. "Carter and I. It seems I 'care about her more than I'm supposed to.' Which," he added quickly, "is not such a bad thing according to a certain anthropologist."

"And?" Daniel crossed his arms over his chest.

"And nothing," Jack stated evenly. "Anise's zatarc detector would have lit up like a Christmas tree if that was anything but the God's honest truth." He smiled bitterly. "Took that thing, a couple of slaps upside my head by Carter's dad, and Teal'c's usual take-no-prisoners type of pep talk to get my head out of my ass far enough to see it."

"It shouldn't matter – doesn't matter –" Daniel hurried to explain, not really listening, suddenly afraid he was starting to sound like a jilted lover. "It's your life, Sam's life, if this is what you really want-"

Strong hands closed around Daniel's shoulders. "Hey. It matters." Jack gave him a little shake. "I'm not breaking up the team, Daniel. Carter doesn't want that any more than I do." Jack's frown was concerned, sorrowful. "I'm really sorry it took us this long to figure it out. And that we – that _I_ hurt you in the process."

A trickle of relief began to worm its way through the rigid control of Daniel's emotions. Jack had apologized. He should be crowing, writing it up for the record books. Instead, that sense of warmth, the renewed connection between them weakened his internal control, and suddenly he was unconvinced. His felt his eyes narrow as the uncertainty grew to disbelief, to mistrust, and then to full blown suspicion.

"Just like that?" he finally blurted out, pulling away from Jack's hold. "A couple of conversations and this past year is gone? Wiped out? All the innuendo, the – the flirting, the way you took every opportunity to push me away, to belittle me, to feed your ego at my expense so that you could get closer to her – all forgotten?" Dammit, he was furious. Livid.

"No!" Jack took a half step forward. "No. Not forgotten, Daniel. I don't expect an instant fix, here. I'm just trying to explain …"

"So explain," Daniel prompted, demanding. "Tell me why now, how you figured it all out. Why, if you weren't in love with Sam, you would act like there was no other sun in your sky for over a year."

"Oh, very poetic, Doctor Jackson."

Daniel flinched at the direct hit and then watched Jack visibly pale as his sarcasm went straight for the soft spot - the psychic jugular. The former Spec Ops colonel pushed the heels of both hands against his eyes, blocking out the sight of Daniel's stricken face, a strangled groan escaping.

"Shit! Shit, sorry, Daniel." Jack choked off another curse and dropped his hands. "Oh, I am so not good at this." His eyes glittered with self-loathing.

"No, you're not," Daniel agreed quietly, backing up another step to keep some careful distance between them.

"I'd blame the damn armbands, but I think that ship has officially sailed."

Teeth clenched tightly, Daniel nodded. Waiting.

Jack moved off towards a shelf-like outcropping, where thin sandy soil barely hid uneven steps carved into the bedrock. He climbed to the top, Daniel following, following Jack's strong back and unspoken command as he had so many times before. Jack stood a moment, framed in the lowering sunlight, and then dropped to sit at the edge, motioning for Daniel to join him. Settling beside his friend, Daniel looked down, sifting the soil through his fingers, letting it fall in thin showers back to the ground. He held darker, wetter sand in his memory, heard the distant gulls, and placed himself beneath an alien sun, the words of an ancient Tok'ra echoing in his mind.

"I never looked at it too closely, just kinda out of the corner of my eye, you know, this thing with Carter."

Jack's words flowed over him, diving beneath his anger and hurt to reach the center of his being before he realized his friend was talking. Daniel settled in to listen.

"Sometimes it reached up and hit me, usually when I'd been particularly nasty, told you to shut up, or ignored your theories. When I took the time to look and saw you pulling away, standing there in the background like you belonged there. Ego. Pride. Vanity. Whatever, I just kept letting it happen."

Daniel nodded, eyes focused somewhere between the grey soil of Vorash and the warm brown sands of a world he'd never visited except within Tymon's memories.

"I had long years of practice, Daniel. Decades. Of pushing crap away. You know that."

He smiled. They were alike in that.

"Because, if I'd looked, if I'd really looked at this 'thing' between Carter and me, I'd have seen. I'd have seen that it wasn't real, that it was hollow. That I'd never have taken another step towards her if my life depended on it."

"I know, Jack."

A shoulder bumped into his, dislodging his handful of sand. "Yeah."

Visions of suburban living, soccer dads, and minivans flared and dissolved in his mind's eye. "I can't imagine you retiring and marrying Sam."

"Oh, hell no." Jack's voice was half-laughing, half-horrified. "That's kinda what Jacob said."

Daniel's thoughts drifted with the warm winds off the jade green sea.

"But that's not what scared the crap out of me, Danny."

The seldom heard nickname got through to him and Daniel turned his head, blinking in the cold grey Vorash dusk. "Jack?"

Warm brown eyes shone with concern and a strong hand rose to grip the back of his neck. "Jacob told me that Per'sus had been looking for a new host for his old teacher for years. That this Tok'ra was some ancient Greek philosopher, an honored scholar, and that you'd be the perfect host to lure this guy out of his depressed funk."

The ache within Jack's eyes anchored Daniel in the here and now.

"I knew that if I came here and found out you'd become a host, that I'd look into your glowy eyes and know it was my fault. That you figured I'd given up on SG-1, on our weird little family, and were looking to find a new one."

Daniel smiled. "Just like I always did."

"Just like you always did."

Daniel brushed the sandy soil off on his fatigues before rising to look out over the barren landscape. He felt Jack's presence at his side. Side by side. Right where they belonged. "So, that's the explanation," he murmured. "Anise's machine, Jacob's warning, it all added up and made you face your true feelings."

"It's the truth, Daniel. I hope you can accept that. And that I'll make sure it never happens again."

"'_No human being will ever know the truth, for even if they happen to say it by chance, they would not even know they had done so_.'" His lips twisted into a smile, knowing Jack wanted to say something, to snidely question the obvious quote, but was holding back, unwilling to damage their tentative reconnection. "It's one of the few snippets of Xenophanes' philosophy that is left to us."

"Ah."

Daniel shook off the remnants of Tymon's memories, buried them deep with the scents and sounds of other worlds, other seas and sands, other people he'd known and loved and lost. Right now he wanted to focus on what he had – the connections he had every intention of holding onto with both hands. He watched Teal'c's straight figure, backlit by the setting sun, his long shadow lying across the flat dunes beneath his feet. An unlikely friend.

Turning, he studied the silver-haired veteran standing beside him. Their friendship was anything but easy, was rooted in mutual loss, scarred by angry words and soul-wrenching disdain. But bloodied hands held tightly, and bonds forged in battle – whether physical battle or inner, darker struggles – were the strongest. Daniel met Jack's anxious gaze, finding a teammate, a friend. Family.

"Xenophanes told me something else, Jack. Something he considered the most important truth he'd discovered in his long existence. He said that, a life lived alone, holding oneself back from the connections of friends and family, from the hurt and joy that come from being vulnerable, from sharing one's true self, is, at best, a half-life."

Jack's crooked smile lit his entire face. "Is that right, Spacemonkey?"

Daniel laughed and shook his head. A moment later he followed the leader of SG-1 down towards the Tok'ra waiting below, Teal'c falling into step with them as they reached the valley floor.

Yeah, Daniel mused, that's right.

The End


End file.
